JC6 


1 


White  Butterflies 


AND 


Other  Stories 


BY 

KATE  UPSON  CLARK 


NEW  YORK 
J.   F.  TAYLOR   AND    COMPANY 

1900 


Copyright,  1900 
BY  J  F.  TAYLOR  AND  COMPANY 


To 

E.  P.  C. 

THIS   BOOK  IS    DEDICATED 


2061718 


Contents 


WHITE  BUTTERFLIES i 

"RALDY" 27 

THE  CHARCOAL  BURNERS 49 

CUPID  AND  MINERVA 74 

THE  CASE  OF  PARSON  HEWLETT  88 

"FOR  LOOLY" 103 

TOMLIN  DRESSER'S  DISAPPEARANCE    -       -       -  142 

DAFFODILS 158 

"SOLLY" 173 

TID'S  WIFE 198 

"YE  CHRISTMAS  WITCH" 209 

DIREXIA 244 

LYDDY  WASHBURN'S  COURTSHIP                       -  266 


White  Butterflies. 


IT  was  a  large,  bare  house — the  only  one  on  the  sandy 
Pine  Hill  road.  An  air  of  desolation  surrounded  it, 
which  young  Mrs.  Collis  Wood  felt  painfully,  as  she 
reined  up  her  gentle  pony  in  front  of  it.  Gloomy  ever- 
green forests  covered  the  hill,  and  even  the  little  open- 
ing around  the  house  looked  dark,  though  the  sun  was 
shining. 

She  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a  stout,  middle-aged 
woman  responded.  Mrs.  Wood  introduced  herself,  and 
the  woman  gave  her  own  name  as  "Mrs.  Keasbey — Mrs. 
Thomas  Keasbey" — with  an  air  of  pride. 

"Perhaps  you  may  know,  Mrs.  Keasbey,"  Mrs.  Wood 
proceeded,  when  they  were  seated  in  the  plain  little  par- 
lor, "that  I  have  a  class  of  girls  which  meets  every  Sunday 
afternoon  in  the  school-house  just  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
here.  Some  of  us  enjoy  driving  out  the  two  miles  from 
the  village,  and  staying  there  an  hour  then,  and  we  hope 
it  is  a  good  thing  for  this  neighborhood.  T  have  noticed, 
when  I  have  been  driving  past  here,  that  you  have  a  very 
bright,  pretty  girl.  Wouldn't  she  like  to  join  my  class?" 

In  spite  of  the  gratified  expression  which  the  easy 
compliment  brought  to  Mrs.  Keasbey's  flabby,  but  not 
uncomely  face,  a  flush  of  displeasure  accompanied  it. 

"It  was  our  Dorilla  you  saw,  probably,"  she  said,  with 
a  nervous  little  laugh,  "but  she's  been  to  school  a  sight. 
Mr.  Keasbey  and  I  have  traveled  mostly  during  the  last 
three  or  four  years,  and  Dorilla  has  been  in  a  convent 
down  South — not  that  we're  specially  religious,  for  we 
7 


8  White  Butterflies. 

ain't — but  it  was  a  good  place  for  her,  and  she  liked  it. 
She  took  all  the  prizes  there — and  she  reads  most  of  the 
time  now.  She's  'most  seventeen,  and  we  think  maybe 
she's  gone  to  school  enough.  She's  sort  o'  odd,  and 
we  want  to  get  her  out  of  the  way  of  it." 

"Then  wouldn't  this  be  a  good  thing  for  her?"  urged 
the  visitor.  "There  are  several  nice  girls  in  this  neigh- 
borhood who  go  there,  and  it  would  be  pleasant  for  a 
stranger  like  your  Dorilla  to  get  acquainted  with  them." 

"N — no,"  dissented  Mrs.  Keasbey.  "We  may  not  stay 
here  very  long.  I  guess  it  ain't  worth  while." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Wood  felt  as  though  she 
were  expected  to  go,  but  she  decided  to  make  another 
attempt. 

"Perhaps  Dorilla  would  really  like  to  come,"  she  sug- 
gested. "Won't  you  let  me  ask  her?" 

"I  don't  know  where  she  is.  She  may  be  off  in  the 
woods  somewhere,  and  I  can't  very  well  leave  to  hunt 
after  her,  for  Mr.  Keasbey  is  home  now,  and  I've  got 
work  to  do.  I  reckon  she  don't  care  to  go." 

At  this  moment  the  front  door  opened,  and  Dorilla 
herself  entered.  Her  attire,  like  her  mother's,  was  soiled 
and  tawdry,  but  beyond  this  there  was  little  resemblance 
between  them.  Dorilla  was  tall,  and  slender,  and  fair. 
Her  black  hair  was  as  soft  as  silk,  and  hung  in  a  long 
braid  down  her  back.  Her  eyes  were  dark,  and  their 
expression  was  almost  wild,  but  her  rather  large  mouth 
and  nose  were  well-shaped  and  firm,  and  her  whole 
bearing  was  quiet  and  pleasing.  It  was  no  wonder  that 
Mrs.  Wood  had  observed  Dorilla  Keasbey,  when  pass- 
ing the  lonely  house  on  Pine  Hill. 

"See,"  said  the  girl,  smiling,  as  she  stood  in  the 
doorway. 


White   Butterflies.  9 

She  held  out  her  round  arm,  from  which  the  loose 
sleeve  fell  away  at  the  elbow.  Three  palpitating  white 
butterflies  were  ranged  in  a  row  upon  the  delicate,  blue- 
veined  flesh.  A  fourth  was  fluttering  around  the  girl's 
head. 

"Don't!"  cried  the  mother,  with  a  half  shriek.  "Push 
'em  off,  Rill!  Put  'em  out  doors!" 

"Why?"  asked  the  girl,  pulling  away,  as  her  mother 
tried  to  push  her.  "They  like  me,  and  I  like  them — and 
they  are  the  sweetest  things  in  the  world." 

At  this  point,  she  saw  Mrs.  Wood  for  the  first  time, 
and  Mrs.  Keasbey  performed  the  necessary  introductions, 
in  a  reluctant  manner  which  the  daughter  could  not  fail 
to  observe.  She  listened  with  interest  to  the  scheme 
which  the  sweet-faced  visitor  proposed,  only  breaking 
in  when  the  advantages  of  knowing  the  "other  girls"  were 
mentioned. 

"I  don't  think  I  care  much  about  them,"  she  said, 
with  a  warm  gleam  in  her  dark  eyes,  "but  I  know  I 
should  like  you — and  I  think  I  will  go." 

"You  better  ask  your  father  first,"  her  mother  warned 
her. 

"I  think  I  can  manage  him." 

"And  you  may  bring  your  butterflies  with  you,"  Mrs. 
Wood  said,  smilingly. 

"I  always  carry  one,"  said  the  girl,  soberly.  She  rolled 
up  her  loose  sleeve,  and  showed,  just  above  her  elbow, 
a  singular  birthmark.  It  stood  out  white,  even  against 
Dorilla's  white  skin  and  was  of  the  general  shape  of  the 
common  white  butterfly. 

"How  strange!"  murmured  the  gentle  visitor. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "and  I  have  always  chased  white 
butterflies  ever  since  I  was  born.  I  feed  them  and  keep 


10  White  Butterflies. 

them  in  my  room — and  I  suppose  I  tame  them — and 
make  them  like  me  in  that  way.  But  I  believe  they 
would  like  me  anyway — that  there  is  something  between 
us.  Don't  you  think  that  that  might  be?" 

"Perhaps  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Wood,  slowly.  "At  any 
rate,  it  is  a  beautiful  omen.  It  betokens  a  white  soul." 

"In  me?"  questioned  the  girl,  half-mockingly. 

"Yes,  you." 

"Oh,  you  don't  know!"  she  murmured,  bitterly. 

"What  did  you  say,  Rill?"  demanded  her  mother,  sus- 
piciously. "Take  care!" 

Mrs.  Collis  Wood  felt  uncomfortable,  and  rose  to 
depart,  more  interested  in  this  strange  girl  than  ever. 

"Then  you  will  come  on- Sunday?"  she  said. 

"No,"  muttered  the  woman,  thickly.  "She  can't  go, 
and  she  knows  she  can't." 

Dorilla  said  nothing  until  she  handed  the  reins  to  Mrs. 
Wood.  Then  the  girl  intimated  that  she  might  appear 
at  the  school-house  on  Sunday  afternoon,  after  all,  and 
only  laughed  at  the  rather  shocked  and  doubtful  expres- 
sion which,  at  these  expressions  of  disobedient  intent, 
appeared  on  her  visitor's  face.  She  drove  away,  with  the 
vision  in  her  mind  of  Dorilla  standing  there  in  the  sun- 
light, with  the  delicate,  white-winged  things  settling 
down  upon  her.  Beside  that  picture,  the  sordid,  shack4y 
house,  with  its  vulgar  mistress  and  its  sinister  atmos- 
phere, sank  into  insignificance. 

Sure  enough,  on  the  following  Sunday,  the  girl  ap- 
peared at  the  school-house,  and  after  the  lesson  was  over 
and  the  others  had  left,  she  explained  to  Mrs.  Wood  that 
she  had  come  without  the  knowledge  of  her  parents, 
"but,"  she  went  on,  "it  didn't  make  any  difference.  A 
lot  of  my  father's  friends  came  from  the  city  last  night, 


White   Butterflies  11 

and  we  had  to  get  a  big  dinner  for  them  this  noon. 
Father  does  some  of  the  cooking,  and  Mikey  and  the 
others  help.  Mother  doesn't  like  to  have  me  spoil  my 
hands.  She  and  my  father  care  a  great  deal  more  about 
keeping  them  white  than  I  do — and  while  they  were  eat- 
ing, I  just  crept  away.  They  think  I  am  in  the  woods — 
for  I  go  off  there  by  myself  a  great  deal.  It's  no  matter, 
anyway." 

"Oh!"  breathed  Mrs.  Wood,  still  somewhat  dubious  as 
to  the  propriety  of  receiving  Dorilla  into  her  class  un- 
der the  circumstances,  and  wondering  why  these  strange 
parents  should  wish  to  keep  the  girl  cooped  up  by  herself 
on  Pine  Hill;  but  her  delight  in  the  class,  her  evident 
love  for  her  young  teacher,  and,  as  the  Sundays  went  by, 
and  she  still  came,  her  high  ethical  perceptions  and  her 
thrist  for  spiritual  light,  determined  Mrs.  Wood  to  let 
things  go  as  Dorilla  wished.  She  said  one  day  to  her: 
"It  is  just  as  I  said,  Dorilla — the  omen  is  true — you  have 
a  white  soul.  You  always  know  what  is  right,  and  see  it 
more  quickly  than  any  of  the  rest  of  us." 

Again  the  mocking,  half-distressed  look  came  over 
the  girl's  face,  and  her  eyes  filled. 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  repeated,  in  a  voice  full 
of  misery. 

Mrs.  Wood  did  not  call  again  at  the  house  at  Pine  Hill, 
but  sometimes  she  drove  past  it,  on  the  chance  of  catch- 
ing a'  glimpse  of  Dorilla.  One  day  she  had  seen  a  man 
there  who  was  undoubtedly  Mr.  Thomas  Keasbey.  He 
was  short,  thick-set,  slovenly,  yet  flashy,  like  his  wife. 

Occasionally  Mrs.  Wood  managed  to  get  Dorilla  to 
spend  an  afternoon  with  her  in  the  village.  Then  they 
had  long,  affectionate  talks,  in  which  each  told  the  other 
of  the  chief  events  of  her  life,  though  Dorilla  was  rather 


12  White   Butterflies. 

provokingly  reserved  in  her  accounts.  Mrs.  Wood  gath- 
ered, however,  that  she  had  been  born  on  her  grand- 
father's farm,  a  little  way  from  New  York  City;  that 
later  the  family  had  removed  to  the  town,  where  they 
had  lived  above  Mr.  Keasbey's  locksmith  shop;  that  they 
had  had  periods  of  prosperity,  during  which  they  had 
traveled  abroad,  dressed  well  and  had  everything.  These 
had  been  succeeded  by  times  of  poverty.  Dorilla  spoke 
most  lovingly  of  the  sisters  at  the  convent  where  she 
had  been  so  long.  "I  had  been  sick,  but  I  grew  well 
and  strong  there,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  loved  the  convent 
so!  If  I  were  only  there  now!"  She  burst  into  tears 
as  she  spoke,  and  sobbed  long  and  passionately. 

"Don't!  Don't,  Dorilla!"  begged  her  gentle  hostess. 
"You  shake  so  and  sob  so,  you  frighten  me." 

"Oh,  you  don't  know!"  wept  the  girl. 

"Don't  know  what?  Aren't  they  kind  to  you  at  home?" 

"Oh,  yes.  My  father  is  good  to  me,  and  proud  that  I 
have  had  some  education.  He  somehow  expects  to  be- 
come rich  again,  and  then  he  will  make  a  fine  lady  of 
me,  he  says." 

As  Mrs.  Wood  stroked  the  girl's  silken  head,  she  cast 
about  in  her  mind  for  threads  of  recollection  which  might 
unravel  the  mystery  of  Dorilla's  tears.  She  remembered 
seeing  once  a  pleasant-looking  young  man  sitting  be- 
side Dorilla  on  the  Pine  Hill  doorstep.  She  had  spoken 
often  of  a  certain  "Mikey."  Could  there  be  a  love  af- 
fair at  the  bottom  of  this  grief? 

A  few  questions  revealed  the  fact  that  Dorilla  did, 
indeed,  cherish  an  affection  for  "Mikey,"  which  was  dis- 
approved by  her  father,  who  said  that  "Mikey"  had  no 
"nerve,"  and  would  never  "amount"  to  anything. 

"But  he  is  a  gentleman,  through  and  through,"  Do- 


White   Butterflies.  13 

rilla  concluded,  with  dilating  eyes  and  blazing  cheeks, 
"and  I  shall  never  like  anybody  else  half  so  much.  I 
know  his  name  isn't  pretty — but  neither  is  mine.  Do- 
rilla!  It  is  the  softest,  sickest  name  I  ever  heard  of.  My 
mother  got  it  out  of  a  novel.  But  I  must  go."  Dorilla 
had  stolen  away  from  home  as  usual. 

"I  wish  they  would  not  keep  you  so  closely,"  sighed 
Mrs.  Wood.  "Why  do  you  suppose  they  won't  let  you 
have  any  friends?" 

The  girl's  eyes  assumed  their  most  unhappy  and  in- 
scrutable look. 

"I — I  don't  understand  it  myself,"  she  stammered. 
"Maybe  it  is  because  we  are  so  poor  now — and  my  father 
wants  to  wait  until  we  can  live  better,  before  we  have 
friends.  Good-bye." 

The  girl  stooped  her  beautiful  head  to  receive  the  kiss 
which  her  young  teacher  offered  her.  As  she  walked 
swiftly  away  in  the  direction  of  Pine  Hill,  a  white  but- 
terfly went  dancing  along  after  her. 

"I  wonder,"  speculated  the  happy  young  wife,  as  she 
stood  watching  the  fair  figure  of  the  girl,  and  thinking 
of  the  secret  just  revealed,  which  she  fancied  explained 
Dorilla's  excitement,  "I  wonder  if  I  am  doing  right  in 
asking  her  so  much  to  come  here — and  all.  It  seems  as 
though  it  couldn't  be  wrong.  At  any  rate,  I  will  think 
about  it  a  little  longer  before  I  make  any  change." 

One  day,  late  in  September,  Thomas  Keasbey,  who  was 
at  home  oftener  now  than  during  the  summer,  asked 
Dorilla  to  do  a  strange  errand,  strange  even  to  her,  who 
was  accustomed  to  strange  errands.  She  was  expert 
with  her  pencil.  He  wished  her  to  visit  the  rooms  of 
the  Woman's  Exchange  in  the  village,  buy  a  few  articles 


14  White   Butterflies. 

there,  and  take  such  notice  of  the  rooms  that  she  could 
make  an  accurate  plan  of  them  afterward. 

The  Woman's  Exchange  rooms  were  situated  on  the 
second  and  top  floor  of  what  was  called  "the  Bank  Block" 
in  the  village.  They  were  three  or  four  in  number,  and 
were  under  the  charge  of  a  charitable  organization  of 
women,  prominent  among  whom  was  Mrs.  Collis  Wood. 
Preserves,  sweetmeats  and  needle-work  were  sold  there, 
as  in  most  such  places.  In  one  room  there  was  a  sort 
of  an  intelligence  office — in  another,  a  small  public 
library.  In  the  summer  there  were  a  good  many  city 
boarders  in  the  vicinity,  who  patronized  the  exchange. 
It  had  been  well-managed,  and  had  more  than  paid  for 
itself,  besides  aiding  many  poor  women. 

Directly  underneath  these  rooms  was  the  village  bank, 
one  of  the  richest  and  best-conducted  country  banks  in 
the  State.  Mr.  Collis  Wood  was  the  cashier.  He  was  a 
young  man,  but  he  had  grown  up  in  the  business  and 
understood  it  thoroughly.  He  had  married  the  daughter 
of  the  bank's  president.  Altogether,  he  possessed  a 
social  and  business  standing  second  to  none  in  the  place. 

Through  a  man  who  had  assisted  in  the  building  of 
the  bank,  Thomas  Keasbey  had  ascertained  that  a  steel 
ceiling  just  above  it  was  topped  by  a  layer  of  cement, 
three  feet  in  thickness.  This  cement  was  as  hard  as 
marble.  Weeks  might  be  required,  with  the  limit  of  avail- 
able hours  per  night,  and  with  the  only  tools  which 
could  be  used  in  such  a  case,  to  cut  a  hole  through  such 
a  ceiling,  large  enough  to  admit  the  body  of  a  man — 
yet  such  a  hole  Mr.  Keasbey  proposed  to  make.  He  had 
secured  a  complete  plan  of  the  bank.  Now  he  must  get 
the  exact  plan  of  the  rooms  above  it.  His  daughter,  with 
her  refined  face,  quick  eye  and  skillful  hand,  was  just  the 


White   Butterflies.  15 

one  to  do  the  work  unsuspected — if  he  could  only  get 
her  to  undertake  it. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  that  Dorilla's  father 
asked  her  to  make  herself  ready  to  go  to  the  village. 
When  she  had  her  hat  and  gloves  on,  he  briefly  out- 
lined her  errand. 

"I  am  thinking  of  putting  up  a  block  of  buildings 
myself,"  he  concluded,  with  a  wink  at  his  wife. 

"Then  why  don't  you  go  to  the  people  who  built  this, 
and  ask  them  for  the  plan?"  she  inquired,  with  the  cloudy 
look  in  her  eyes  which  always  came  when  she  was  deeply 
moved. 

"I  can't  afford  it,  you  little  goose,"  he  answered  with 
a  laugh.  "They  would  charge  me  big  money." 

Dorilla  turned;  slowly  walked  over  the  hill  to  the  vil- 
lage; did  her  errand,  and  gave  the  plan  to  her  father,  hav- 
ing finished  it  as  soon  as  she  was  well  concealed  by  the 
trees  on  her  way  home;  but  she  felt  vaguely  uncomfort- 
able over  what  she  had  done,  and  she  went  back  into  the 
woods,  after  a  little,  and  sat  there  on  a  rock,  thinking  for  a 
long  time. 

In  her  thought  she  lived  over  her  life  again.  She  re- 
membered how  fondly  she  had  adored  her  father  before 
she  went  to  the  convent.  During  the  years  there,  she 
had  seen  little  of  him.  She  had  usually  spent  her  vaca- 
tions with  the  sisters,  who  had  made  a  pet  of  her.  Now 
and  then  she  had  staid  with  her  father  and  mother  at 
some  hotel.  The  quality  of  these  hotels  had  declined 
steadily  during  the  last  two  years,  and  Thomas  Keasbey 
had  grown  gloomy  and  irritable.  Still,  when  he  had 
come  to  the  convent  to  see  her,  he  had  brought  her  beau- 
tiful presents,  and  at  the  hotels  he  had  been  fond  and 
proud  of  her,  and  she  had  still  loved  him. 


16  White   Butterflies. 

This  summer,  however,  during  the  ten  or  twelve  weeks 
since  the  Keasbeys  had  moved  into  the  Pine  Hill  house, 
Dorilla's  feelings  toward  her  father  had  undergone  a 
change.  He  was  still  kind  to  her  and  to  her  mother, 
when  he  was  himself;  but  he  often  drank  deeply — espe- 
cially when  the  five  or  six  friends,  whom  he  called  his 
"business  partners,"  came  out  to  spend  the  night  with 
him.  Dorilla  could  dimly  recollect  such  scenes  far  back 
in  her  childhood,  but  she  had  not  known  them  in  recent 
years,  and  they  shocked  her.  Her  lessons  in  the  school- 
house  had  lent  a  new  force  to  moral  convictions  formed 
in  the  convent.  They  and  the  indirect  influence  of  Mrs. 
Collis  Wood,  in  those  long,  delightful  talks  which  Do- 
rilla contrived  to  steal  now  and  then  on  a  weekday,  were 
insensibly  altering  the  whole  current  of  the  girl's 
thoughts.  The  squalor  and  confusion  of  the  shackly 
house  on  Pine  Hill  annoyed  and  chafed  upon  her  more 
and  more.  The  atmosphere  of  tobacco  smoke  and  rum 
which;  filled  it  when  the  "friends"  had  been  there  nau- 
seated and  disgusted  her.  Her  quick  intuition  led  her  to 
believe  that  her  father's  "business"  was  not  strictly  legiti- 
mate. The  awful  truth  was  only  just  beginning  to  dawn 
upon  her,  but  all  summer,  since  she  had  come  away  from 
the  convent  in  early  June,  she  had  felt  that  matters  were 
not  right.  The  drunken  carousals,  the  oaths  and  allu- 
sions to  crime — which  her  father  always  tried  to  stop  in 
her  presence — all  of  the  circumstances  which  surrounded 
her,  distressed  and  mystified  her.  Mrs.  Collis  Wood  often 
felt  as  though  the  girl  had  in  her  an  element  of  the  super- 
natural; but  to  Dorilla  herself  this  element  seemed  even 
stronger.  She  felt  like  two  people.  She  could  not  realize 
that  she  was  the  same  girl  who  had  chased  the  white 
butterflies  in  the  convent  garden,  studied  her  lessons  in 


White   Butterflies.  IT 

the  quiet  school-room,  and  built  her  fondest  hopes  on  the 
winning  of  first  medals.  Now  there  was  this  awful  secrecy 
— these  coarse  men  coming  to  the  house  at  night — al- 
ways by  night — the  constant  injunctions  to  her  to  repeat 
nothing  which  she  heard  said — to  make  no  acquaintances 
— these  expectations  of  wealth  in  the  near  future — and 
then — there  was  Mikey,  with  his  handsome  face,  the  love 
which  he  had  declared  for  her  and  which  she  herself 
saw  no  harm  in  returning — and  yet  to  which  her  father 
was  so  unalterably  opposed.  It  was  all  so  deeply  con- 
fusing and  bewildering  that  it  seemed  to  her  like  a 
horrible  nightmare. 

That  Saturday  night,  five  of  the  "friends"  had, come 
for  Sunday,  and  there  was  a  great  supper  to  clear  away. 
TJorilla  wiped  the  dishes  in  the  kitchen  for  her  mother, 
saying  little  or  nothing.  Then  they  both  sat  down  for  a 
moment  on  the  cool  back  steps.  Presently  Mrs.  Keas- 
bey  spoke  chidingly. 

"What  was  you  whispering  and  talking  so  with  Mikey 
for,  Rilla?  You  know " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  interrupted  Dorilla,  impatiently.  "I'm 
tired  of  hearing  about  it.  I  wish  you  would  never  men- 
tion Mikey  to  me  again." 

Mrs.  Keasbey  fumed  and  fretted  on  weakly,  but  the 
girl  made  no  further  reply.  Suddenly  a  great  white  moth 
came  fluttering  down  out  of  the  darkness  and  settled 
upon  her  ruffled  hair,  swaying  his  velvet  wings  back  and 
forth.  The  mother  started  as  she  saw  it. 

"Where  did  that  come  from,  Dorilla?" 

"Where  they  always  come  from  when  I'm  around," 
laughed  the  girl,  with  a  little  note  of  triumph  in  her  voice. 

Mrs.  Keasbey  got  up  and  went  into  the  house.  She 
was  half  afraid  of  Dorilla  when  she  was  in  this  mood. 


18  White    Butterflies. 

v 

Two  terrible  weeks  followed.  The  men  remained  at 
the  house  all  the  time,  sleeping  by  day  and  roaming 
abroad  by  night.  Two  or  three  times  the  girl  questioned 
her  mother,  but  Mrs.  Keasbey  either  answered  nothing  at 
all,  or  in  meaningless  general  terms.  The  housework, 
even  when  performed  after  that  lady's  easy  methods,  was 
a  heavy  burden,  though  the  men  attempted  to  help,  and 
one  of  them,  who  was  a  baker  by  trade,  rendered  con- 
siderable assistance.  They  drank  more  than  usual,  and 
Mr.  Keasbey  was  taciturn  and  morose.  Even  Mikey  was 
nervous,  and  drank  too  much.  Dorilla  could  not  get  away 
on  Sunday  for  the  class  at  the  school-house,  nor  any 
visit  with  her  teacher  during  the  week.  She  was  in- 
wardly excited  to  the  highest  pitch.  It  seemed  as  though 
she  must  go  crazy. 

On  a  certain  Friday  night  the  crisis  came.  For  two 
weeks,  every  evening,  Thomas  Keasbey  and  his  men, 
gathering  singly,  from  different  directions  and  at  different 
hours,  had  effected,  by  means  of  skeleton  keys  and  other 
simple  tools,  an  entrance  into  the  room  which  lay  above 
the  vault  of  the  bank.  They  had  raised  the  carpet  there, 
removed  some  planks,  and  bored  into  the  adamant  ce- 
ment below  them.  By  cautious  and  persistent  labor,  they 
had  now  hewn  out  a  jagged  hole  in  it,  large  enough  to 
admit  them,  one  by  one,  into  the  bank  below.  The  steel 
ceiling  had  been  partially  drilled  through.  Every  night, 
the  dust  and  fragments  had  been  neatly  swept  into  bags, 
the  planks  and  carpet  had  been  replaced,  the  doors  and 
windows  had  been  securely  relocked,  and  the  great  bur- 
glary had  been  a  little  nearer  its  consummation — and 
Thomas  Keasbey  had  as  yet  no  reason  to  fear  that  the 
slightest  suspicion  had  fastened  upon  their  movements. 

That  day  the  men  slept  long  and  soundly.     It  was 


White   Butterflies.  19 

after  six  when  they  assembled  for  their  evening  meal. 
The  October  night  was  warm  and  close,  but  they  dared 
not  have  a  curtain  up  nor  a  window  open.  Dorilla  and 
her  mother  waited  on  them  in  silence.  The  men  were 
nervous  and  thirsty,  but  Thomas  Keasbey  would  not  let 
them  drink  much. 

"We  want  clear  heads  to-night,  boys,"  he  said.  "Do- 
rilla, fill  the  glasses  once  out  of  this  bottle.  When  we 
get  back,  maybe  we'll  have  a  little  more." 

They  did  not  sit  long  at  the  table,  and  Mrs.  Keasbey 
and  Dorilla,  assisted  by  Mikey,  cleared  up  after  them  in  a. 
few  minutes.  Mikey  was  very  gentle  that  night.  Even 
Mrs.  Keasbey,  who  was  always  "short"  with  him,  in 
spite  of  his  solicitous  efforts  to  please  her,  could  not 
help  softening  a  little  when  she  saw  how  deft  and  kind 
he  was;  but  when  she  marked  the  glances  which  passed 
between  him  and  Dorilla,  her  anger  rose  again. 

"It  will  take  more  than  Thomas  Keasbey  to  part  those 
two,"  she  mused.  But  in  her  soul  she  felt  sure,  after  all, 
that  the  iron  will  of  her  husband  would  effect  his  pur- 
pose. It  did  not  seem  to  her  that  anything  could  be 
stronger  than  he. 

Mikey  at  last  joined  the  men  in  the  parlor,  into  which 
the  door  stood  open.  Dorilla  could  hear  that  the  talking 
which  was  going  on  there  was  excited,  though  it  was 
subdued  in  tone. 

Mrs.  Keasbey  declared  that  she  was  so  tired  she 
couldn't  sit  up  a  moment  longer,  and  pottered  off  to  her 
room  upstairs.  It  was  only  nine  o'clock,  but  she  recom- 
mended that  Dorilla  should  go  to  bed  also.  The  girl 
obediently  followed  up  the  stairs,  and  shut  the  door  of  her 
room  behind  her.  She  heard  her  mother  moving  about  on 
the  other  side  of  the  partition.  Then  all  was  silent  there, 


20  White  Butterflies. 

but  Dorilla  herself  made  no  preparations  to  retire  for 
the  night.  Instead,  she  sat  by  the  open  window,  gazing 
into  the  warm  darkness,  and  listening  to  the  rustling  of 
the  pines.  After  awhile  she  went  out  and  sat  on  the  stair- 
way. 

Thomas  Keasbey  had  heard  his  wife  and  daughter  de- 
part for  their  rooms,  and  he  supposed  that  by  this  time 
they  were  sound  asleep.  He  was  therefore  talking  un- 
reservedly with  the  men  in  the  parlor.  Dorilla  could 
hear  almost  every  word  which  was  said  there.  She  heard 
directions  given  for  the  use  of  the  explosives  by  means 
of  which  the  bank  safe  was  to  be  blown  open,  and  what 
was  to  be  done  with  the  booty,  when  the  job  was  com- 
pleted and  the  smoke  had  cleared  away.  Then  words 
fell  from  Mikey  which  made  her  blood  run  cold : 

"The  cashier  sleeps  there  now,  while  all  this  money 
is  there,  as  well  as  the  watchman.  We  can  manage  the 
watchman  well  enough,  but  two  of  them  won't  be  so 
easy — and  the  cashier  is  likely  to  be  an  ugly  customer — 
that  Wood.  They  say  he  isn't  afraid  of  the  devil  him- 
self." 

"Mike,  you're  a  fool!"  Dorilla  heard  Thomas 

Keasbey  rejoin  fiercely.  "What's  that  bottle  of  chloro- 
form for?  There's  enough  of  it  for  four  men,  and  it's 
to  use.  Then  there  is  that  coil  of  rope,  and  you  ought 
to  have  three  or  four  good  gags  in  your  pockets,  every 
one  of  you.  Tie  his  hands  and  eyes  as  quick  as  you  can — 
and  don't  ask  again  what  you  will  do  with  any  man  who 
gets  in  our  way." 

Dorilla  heard  allusions  which  showed  her  plainly  what 
use  had  been  made  of  her  drawings.  The  whole  terrible 
plot  stood  revealed  to  her  in  all  its  ghastliness.  She  re- 
proached herself  for  a  fool  that  she  had  not  understood  it 


White   Butterflies.  21 

from  the  first.  Struck  with  a  paralysis  of  horror,  she 
sat  on  the  stairway,  as  though  she  should  never  move 
again. 

When  the  men  began  to  push  their  chairs  about  on 
the  bare  parlor  floor,  however,  she  rose  and  fled  softly 
into  her  room,  closing  the  door  and  locking  it  behind 
her.  Then  she  flung  herself  on  her  bed  and  wept  wildly, 
wringing  her  hands  and  asking  herself  what  she 
should  do. 

She  heard  the  clock  strike  twelve.  There  was  a  sound 
of  doors  and  windows  opening  and  shutting.  Then  she 
heard  the  men  tramping  off.  Hoarse  voices  uttered  a 
few  words  under  her  window.  She  knew  that  the  last 
details  of  the  elaborate  plot  were  now  arranged.  Then 
there  was  a  dead  silence.  The  very  pines  seemed  to  wait 
and  listen. 

Once  she  sprang  up,  determined  to  fly  to  the  village 
and  arouse  her  'friend.  She  would  tell  Mrs.  Wood  of 
the  danger  that  threatened  her  husband  and  the  bank. 
Then  they  could  go  together  and  drive  the  men  away. 
The  next  day,  the  hole  which  had  been  made  through  the 
ceiling  could  be  filled  up,  and  the  Keasbeys  and  Mikey 
and  the  rest  could  vanish  quietly  from  the  place. 

Thus  reasoned  the  child  within  her,  but  the  woman 
there  laughed  aloud  at  such  silliness.  "It  would  mean 
the  whole  town  awake  and  excited,"  said  the  wiser  men- 
tor. "It  would  mean  twenty  years  in  prison,  perhaps,  for 
your  father  and  for  Mikey." 

As  she  lay  upon  her  bed,  clutching  the  counterpane, 
and  shuddering  and  groaning  aloud,  her  father's  kind- 
ness to  her  through  all  her  life  passed  like  a  panorama 
before  her.  His  old  tenderness  and  goodness  blotted 


22  White   Butterflies. 

out  for  a  moment  all  his  sternness  and  all  the  vices  which 
had  made  her  love  him  less  this  summer. 

"It  is  for  my  sake  that  he  is  risking  his  life  and  his  free- 
dom to-night,"  she  wept.  "He  wants  to  make  a  lady  of 
me." 

It  seemed  as  though  real  and  sinewy  hands  caught  her 
heart  between  them  and  compressed  it  until  it  ached.  She 
could  hardly  breathe.  She  rushed  to  the  window  for  air. 

"And  Mikey!"  she  panted.  "I  couldn't  give  up  Mikey! 
I  don't  so  much  mind  the  others.  They  are  bad,  through 
and  through.  But  my  father  isn't.  Anyway,  he  has  al- 
ways been  good  to  me.  And  Mikey  is  good.  That  is 
what  my  father  meant  when  he  said  that  Mikey  hadn't 
any  nerve.  Mikey  said  he  was  going  to  get  into  some 
sort  of  'regular'  business.  I  know  now  what  he  meant. 
He  knows  that  I  could  never  bear  to  have  him  doing 
things  like  this.  He  understands  me.  If  he  only  gets 
along  right  to-night,  he  will  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and 
become  an  honest  man — and  father,  too." 

Then  she  thought  of  the  sisters  at  the  convent,  and 
their  peaceful,  virtuous  lives.  If  they  had  quarrels  or 
troubles,  they  had  never  let  her  know  it.  She  imagined 
their  dismay  if  they  should  learn  that  her  father  was  a 
burglar. 

She  thought,  too,  of  Mrs.  Collis  Wood.  Her  beauti- 
ful, innocent  face  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  shadows  and 
confront  the  girl  only  an  arm's  length  away,  and  her 
eyes  were  brimming  with  reproachful  tears. 

"I  loved  you.  I  trusted  you,"  the  sweet  mouth  seemed 
to  say,  "and  how  have  you  rewarded  me?  I  did  every- 
thing in  my  power  for  you.  I  would  have  done  more 
if  you  would  have  let  me — and  yet  you  have  given  over 
the  one  I  love  best  to  robbers — perhaps  to  murderers. 


White   Butterflies.  23 

You  have  let  thieves  steal  my  property,  and  that  of  many 
other  blameless  people.    Is  this  right?" 

On  the  moment,  the  girl  heard  a  fluttering  in  the  dark- 
ness. Black  as  it  was,  she  could  dimly  discern  in  it  the 
shape  of  the  great  white  moth,  which  had  come  to  her 
when  she  had  sat  with  her  mother  on  the  kitchen  steps. 
She  had  kept  it  in  her  room,  and  had  fed  it  ever  since. 
Now  it  had  flown  away.  She  had  never  known  one  to  fly 
away  from  her  before.  The  superstition  which  had  been 
bred  in  her  by  her  sequestered  life,  and  by  the  singular  pe- 
culiarity which  marked  her,  awoke  with  a  passionate  fer- 
vor. 

"Come  back!"  she  cried,  with  a  shriek,  which  she  in- 
stantly regretted,  for  she  feared  that  it  might  have  awak- 
ened her  mother — but  the  moth  had  gone.  She  could 
hear  its  great  wings  beating  the  darkness,  just  beyond 
her  reach. 

"I  must  do  it!  It  is  right!"  she  murmured,  over  and 
over  again.  She  ran  into  the  hall,  and  listened  at  her 
mother's  door.  Mrs.  Keasbey  was  breathing  hard,  and 
had  evidently  heard  nothing.  Dorilla  envied  her  mother 
the  power  to  sleep  at  such  a  time.  Then  the  girl  took 
off  her  shoes,  weeping  bitterly,  but  with  unfaltering  move- 
ments carrying  out  her  determination.  As  she  crept  into 
the  shadows  of  the  forest  and  stooped  to  refasten  her 
shoes,  something  brushed  the  air  beside  her.  It  was  a 
great  white  moth.  She  felt  sure  that  it  was  the  one  which 
had  left  her.  Before  she  had  risen,  it  had  settled  and  was 
swaying  upon  the  loose  ringlets  above  her  forehead. 
******* 

Two  hours  later,  she  was  lying,  more  dead  than  alive, 
upon  the  lace-covered  bed  of  Mrs.  Collis  Wood.  A  serv- 
ing woman  stood  over  her,  fanning  her.  There  was  a 


24  White   Butterflies. 

sudden  rush  of  garments.  White  and  startled,  much  as 
she  had  seen  it  in  her  vision  on  the  hill,  the  face  of  her 
young  teacher  looked  into  Dorilla's. 

"Can  you  bear  it,  Dorilla?  Oh,  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to 
tell  you!  You  must  know  it  soon,  but  are  you  strong 
enough  to  bear  it  now?" 

The  girl  nodded.  All  the  fierceness  and  selfishness  of 
her  nature  seemed  gone.  She  was  melted  down  to  utter 
tenderness. 

"My  husband  has  been  brought  home.  He  is  uncon- 
scious, but  the  doctor  says  that  he  will  be  all  right  before 
long — and  you  have  saved  his  life!" 

She  could  not  go  on  for  the  tears  which  choked  her. 

"Well?"  said  Dorilla,  raising  herself  on  her  elbow.  Her 
voice  showed  that  her  nerves  were  strained  to  the  last 
pitch  of  endurance. 

"But  your  father — you  know  there  was  a  hand-to-hand 
fight  between  his  men  and  ours — and  he  was  hurt,  but 
not  seriously.  He  will  have  to,  oh,  my  poor  Dorilla!  he 
will  probably  have  to  serve  a  long  term  in  prison.  And — 
and — nobody  was  shot  but  one — he  was  shot — dead — the 
one  you  called  Mikey." 

Dorilla  fell  back  on  the  bed.  She  had  heard  now  all 
that  she  wanted  to  know. 

Presently  she  sprang  up  and  began  with  quivering 
hands  to  arrange  her  dress. 

"You  better  lie  still,"  the  serving-woman  warned  her. 
"You  don't  look  as  if  you'd  oughter  stand  up.  You'll 
faint  away,  first  you  know." 

"Dorilla!"  cried  Mrs.  Collis  Wood,  throwing  her  arms 
around  the  white  and  agitated  girl,  "don't  think  of  leav- 
ing me!     You  are  going  to  live  always  with  me  now!" 
.  "I^p,"  said  Dorilla,  with  the  old  dark  look  flashing 


White   Butterflies.  25 

from  her  wild  eyes.  "I  love  you,  and  I  always  shall — but 
I  can't  live  in  the  world  any  more.  Don't  you  see?  My 
heart  is  broken.  I  am  young,  I  know — and  you  think 
I  can  get  over  things — but  I  can't.  I  have  tried  to  do 
right,  as  you  told  me — and  it  has  broken  my  heart." 

"But  you  are  needed  in  the  world!  We  need  women 
like  you — brave  and  unselfish,  and  with  quick  minds  to 
plan  and  do." 

"No,  I  can't  stand  it,"  insisted  the  girl,  wearily,  but  with 
a  trace  of  her  old  fire.  "I  will  go  and  get  my  mother. 
They  will  take  us  both  there — at  the  convent.  Just  help 
me  to  get  back  to  the  convent.  It  will  be  the  kindest  thing 
you  can  do  for  me.  I  want  to  live  there  always  with  the 
sisters.  You  don't  believe  in  masses  for  souls,  or  prayers 
for  the  dead — but  don't  you  see  I've  got  to?  That's  what 
I  shall  do  now — offer  them  all  the  rest  of  my  life — for — " 
she  stopped,  and  the  strained  look  gave  way  on  her  face, 
"I  tell  you  my  heart  is  broken." 

She  threw  her  arms  around  her  friend,  and  they  wept 
together. 
******* 

When  they  had  bound  up  Thomas  Keasbey's  wounds 
and  led  him  away,  it  was  broad  daylight.  His  head  was 
bandaged,  and  he  had  one  arm  in  a  sling,  but  he  could 
see,  and  his  mind  was  perfectly  clear.  Ever  since  the  first 
onslaught  of  the  constables  upon  them,  he  had  been 
casting  about  for  some  explanation  of  the  failure  of  the 
plans  upon  which  he  had  expended  his  best  thought  for 
many  months.  He  could  not  devise  any. 

The  cashier's  house  was  only  a  few  doors  away  from  the 
bank.  As,  held  between  two  of  his  captors,  Thomas 
Keasbey  shuffled  along  past  this  house,  he  glanced  down- 
ward. There  lay  a  great  white  moth,  trampled  and  dead. 


26  White   Butterflies. 

He  shook  himself  free  for  an  instant,  and  with  his  sound 
arm  picked  up  the  soiled,  exquisite  thing.  Then  he 
turned  furiously  to  the  man  beside  him. 

"It  was  a  girl  that  gave  us  away,  I  reckon,  wasn't  it?" 
The  man  hesitated  a  moment.    Then  he  said:    "Yes." 


"Raldy." 

A  STORY  OF  THE  WISCONSIN  RIVER. 

"A  A  7HAT'LL  they do?" 

V  y       "I'm  sure  I  don't  know." 

"Sim  won't  work,  and  they're  poor  as 
poverty.  It's  a  year  since  the  wife  died,  and  now  the  old 
mother's  gone.  She  brought  in  the  pennies  right  smart." 

"There  he  is  now." 

The  two  women  stopped  their  whispering  as  the  tall, 
loosely-built  figure  of  Sim  Peebles  came  shambling  along 
the  ragged  street  of  "Dearborn  City." 

A  look  of  unmistakable  affliction  rested  upon  his  weak 
but  handsome  face,  and  a  rag  of  black  stuff  was  tied 
decently  about  his  shabby  hat.  Two  children,  little  more 
than  infants,  came  running  to  meet  him  from  the  low  but 
fierce-fronted  house,  into  which  he  finally  entered  with 
them,  and  then  the  two  women  went  on  with  their  inter- 
rupted conversation. 

"Who's  a-doin'  things  for  them,  anyhow?  Who  fixed 
her?" 

"Him,  I  guess." 

"Then  he's  smarter  than  I  ever  give  him  credit  for." 

A  young  woman  who  was  walking  hastily  along  the 
street  had  come  close  upon  them  while  they  were  en- 
gaged in  watching  Sim  Peebles,  and  had  overheard  these 
latter  remarks  of  that  gentleman's  critics.  She  was  above 
the  medium  height,  and  of  a  large  and  imposing  figure, 
though  far  from  graceful.  Her  large  hands  swung  almost 
27 


28  White   Butterflies. 

fiercely  as  she  walked,  and  her  tread  was  hard  and  mascu- 
line. With  a  mouth  and  chin  handsomely  and  firmly 
though  somewhat  coarsely  moulded,  her  broad  and  pro- 
jecting forehead,  and  brilliant,  fearless  blue  eyes,  added  to 
the  heavy  braids  of  flaxen  hair  which  were  wound  neatly 
about  her  head,  made  her  face  striking,  and  even  comely. 
The  women  turned  with  a  start  as  they  saw  her,  and 
realized  that  she  had  overheard  them.  Geralda,  or,  as  she 
was  commonly  known,  "Raldy,"  Scott  was  evidently  a 
woman  of  whose  opinion  they  stood  somewhat  in  awe. 

"You  didn't  offer  to  help  Sim  Peebles  yesterday," 
Raldy  Scott  said  disdainfully,  pausing  a  moment  in  her 
hurried  walk.  "He  was  alone  there  with  that  dead 
woman  and  those  little  children,  and  yet  you,  his  neigh- 
bors, women  with  husbands  and  children  of  your  own, 
never  offered  to  help  him.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourselves,"  she  continued,  her  eyes  flashing,  and  her 
language,  which  had  been  much  better  than  that  of  her 
slatternly  neighbors,  taking  on  in  her  excitement  more  of 
their  peculiar  Western  twang.  "And  here,  instead  of 
walking  up  to  his  door  and  saying,  'Sim,  can't  we  help 
you  in  your  trouble?'  you  are  standing  in  the  street  out- 
side, wondering  'Who'll  help  him?'  Raldy  Scott  despises 
lazy,  shiftless  Sim  Peebles  as  much  as  you  do;  but  she 
washed  and  dressed  his  dead  mother  for  him,  she  fed  his 
children,  and,  not  being  quite  a  brute,  she  proposes  to 
take  care  of  them  till  Sim  Peebles  can  get  somebody  else. 
He  swam  in,  when  the  Dells  were  full  of  ice,  and  got  my 
father's  body,  so  that  his  daughters  could  bury  him  de- 
cently, and  Mart  and  I  don't  forget  it." 

Raldy  Scott  swung  along,  leaving  her  listeners 
half-stunned  with  her  scathing  rebuke. 


Raldy."  29 


"Humph!"  said  one  of  them  sullenly;  "mebbe  Raldy 
Scott  can't  always  carry  things  so  high." 

"But  the  men'll  always  stand  up  for  her,"  said  the  other 
one  dejectedly.  "They  think  she's  pow'rful  smart  because 
she's  made  two  or  three  trips  up  in  the  pines  and  down 
on  the  rafts  with  the  men.  It  must  'a'  ben  since  you 
come  here  that  she  come  back  the  last  time  with  her 
drunken  old  father.  She  sorter  looked  after  him,  I 
reckon.  He  had  fine  airy  ways,  he  had,  and  nothing  but  a 
tipsy  Irishman,  after  all;  and  she  with  breeches  and  coat 
on,  jest  like  the  men.  Oh,"  spitefully,  "she  ain't  partick- 
eler,  Raldy  Scott  ain't;  can  swim  and  pole  a  raft  with  any 
man  in  the  Dells  any  day.  Only  since  old  Roy  Scott  died 
she  dresses  like  the  rest  of  us.  Her  sister  Mart's  goin'  to 
get  married.  Likely  she  wants  to,  too";  and  the  two 
women  laughed  viperishly. 

"Perhaps  she'll  get  Sim  Peebles,"  said  the  other,  as 
they  parted;  "he's  ben  a  likely  young  widower  some  time 
now,"  and  they  laughed  a  coarse,  hateful  laugh  as  they 
went  to  their  homes. 

The  two  or  three  scores  of  houses,  many  of  them  built 
of  logs,  which  formed  the  homely,  straggling  street  of 
Dearborn  City,  were  inhabited  almost  wholly  by  lumber- 
men. During  a  large  part  of  the  year  these  men  were 
away  from  their  families,  cutting  wood  in  the  pines;  but 
when  the  ice  began  to  break,  and  the  great  spring  flood 
of  the  majestic  Wisconsin  rolled  down  from  the  north, 
they  massed  their  logs  into  rafts,  and  came  floating  down 
the  river  to  their  homes.  The  village  had  been  planted 
in  the  midst  of  the  forest,  and  from  many  of*  its  houses 
were  visible  the  high  red  walls  of  the  river,  as  it  shot 
through  its  wonderful  Dells,  and  the  roar  of  its  torrent 
rose  upon  their  hearing  perpetually.  Just  below  the  site 


so  White   Butterflies. 

of  the  village  there  was  a  break  in  the  high  red  sandstone 
which  lined  the  river  for  miles — with  occasional  rifts  like 
this  one — and  here,  when  the  current  would  permit,  the 
rafts  paused  in  the  spring  long  enough  for  those  to  land 
who  were  not  absolutely  necessary  to  conduct  the  un- 
wieldy argosies  to  the  distant  Mississippi.  If  the  current 
were  too  strong  for  the  rafts  to  stop,  as  was  generally  the 
case,  the  men  sprang  into  the  boiling  rapids  and  swam 
ashore.  Many  a  life,  even  of  experienced  river  pilots, 
had  been  lost  in  the  attempt,  and  it  was  in  this  way  that 
Roy  Scott  had  perished. 

He  had  indeed  been  an  Irishman,  and  a  dissipated  one, 
but  he  had  belonged  to  a  wealthy  and  honorable  family. 
He  squandered  his  patrimony  early  in  life,  however,  emi- 
grated to  the  New  World,  and  pushed  into  the  wilds  of 
what  was  then  the  farthest  West.  There  he  became  en- 
amored of  the  exciting  life  of  the  lumbermen  of  the 
Wisconsin,  entered  into  it,  met  and  married  a  quiet  Swede 
girl,  the  daughter  of  one  of  his  hardy  comrades,  and  from 
their  strange  union  had  sprung  the  gentle  Martha  and  the 
large-featured,  fair-haired  Geralda,  whose  Northern 
phlegm  and  endurance  were  united  with  the  quick  wit 
and  intense  passion  of  her  Irish  ancestors. 

Geralda  Scott  clung  to  the  memory  of  her  father  with 
an  almost  sublime  devotion.  His  varied  knowledge,  a 
certain  bluff  polish  of  manner  which  his  wild  and  roving 
life  had  never  entirely  obliterated,  and  his  feats  of 
strength  and  bravery,  which  were  many  and  remarkable, 
she  loved  to  dwell  upon.  From  the  upper  windows  of  the 
rude,  high-fronted  "shanty"  in  which  she  and  her  sister 
lived,  they  could  see  plainly,  some  fifty  feet  below  the  top 
of  the  red  rock  which  bound  the  river,  and  a  full  two 


« Raldy."  si 

hundred  above  the  swirling  rapids,  the  legend,  in  bold 
white  letters: 


LEROY  TALBOT  SCOTT, 

RIVER  PILOT. 
1843- 

The  girl  never  saw  this  without  a  secret  thrill,  for  her 
father,  years  before  she  was  bor-n,  had  climbed  unaided  up 
the  beetling  crag,  and  had  hung  by  one  hand  between 
heaven  and  earth  while  he  had  written  it. 

"Humph,  Mart  Scott!"  she  had  said,  sharply,  to  her 
quiet  and  unimpassioned  sister,  "what  are  you  made  of 
that  you  can  hear  these  things,  and  yet  sit  there  like  a 
block?" 

But  Martha,  with  her  pale  Northern  face  and  stolid 
Swede  manner,  cared  more  for  the  stout  young  pilot  who 
was  going  to  marry  her  than  for  all  the  stories  of  her 
reckless  father's  exploits.  To  her,  whose  frame  was  less 
robust  than  Geralda's,  and  who  had  always  lived  at  home 
with  her  gentle  mother,  he  had  seemed  only  a  carousing 
debauchee,  whose  absence  in  the  pines  was  a  pleasant  re- 
lief, and  whose  coming  was  dreaded  like  the  coming  of  a 
cyclone.  To  tell  the  truth,  Martha  regarded  Raldy,  who 
at  sixteen  had  donned  man's  attire,  as  the  disapproving 
neighbor  had  truly  said,  and  had  gone,  under  the  leal 
though  maudlin  protection  of  her  father,  to  do  lumber- 
men's work  and  share  lumbermen's  fare  in  the  rough  life 
of  the  pineries — she  regarded  Raldy  with  almost  as  much 
dread  as  she  had  had  of  her  dead  father.  But  Raldy  Scott, 
though  she  might  be  dreaded,  was  thoroughly  respected 
by  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  Dearborn  City.  She 
was  the  soul  of  honor,  and  by  hard  work  and  economy  she 


32  White   Butterflies. 

and  Martha  had  managed  to  bury  their  father  and  mother 
decently,  and  then  to  pay  off  the  mortgage  on  their  little 
home.  Raldy  Scott  had  a  brusque  and  forbidding  man- 
ner, but,  as  Sim  Peebles  and  many  another  man  and 
woman  had  found  out  in  times  of  trouble,  underneath  it 
beat  a  kind  and  generous  heart. 

Raldy  Scott  was  as  good  as  her  word;  and  when  the 
little  funeral  procession  which  followed  Sim  Peebles's 
mother  to  the  grave  moved  away  from  the  desolate  hut, 
which  Raldy's  strong,  neat  hands  had  cleansed  and  puri- 
fied, Raldy  herself,  with  her  brave,  straightforward  face 
held  up  defiantly  to  her  gaping  neighbors,  had  led  one  of 
the  sobbing  babies,  while  their  shambling  father,  looking 
strangely  kempt  and  tidy,  walked  beside  the  other.  Then 
they  had  come  home  again  to  the  little  hut,  and  every  day 
through  the  dreary  November  weather  Raldy  Scott  had 
tended  the  orphaned  children,  and  kept  the  cabin, 
hastening  home,  when  the  little  ones  were  safely  in  bed, 
to  Mart  and  her  own  trim,  though  only  less  humble,  home. 

"What  you  goin'  to  git  for  your  pains,  Raldy?"  said  a 
kindly  old  lumberman  to  her  one  day.  He  had  befriended 
her  father,  and  Raldy  could  not  answer  him  curtly. 

"Talk  behind  my  back — and  experience,"  said  Raldy, 
half-smiling.  But  Mart  was  to  be  married  at  Christmas 
time,  so  that  Raldy  felt  she  could  afford  to  earn  less  for 
a  while;  and,  indeed,  though  she  would  not  have  allowed 
it  to  herself,  she  was  becoming  almost  fond  of  the  life 
which  she  was  leading  in  Sim  Peebles's  cabin. 

"You're  a  powerful  hand  to  work,  Raldy,"  said  Sim  to 
her  one  day,  as  he  sat  watching  her  swift  and  energetic 
movements  about  his  cheerless  little  kitchen. 

Raldy  stopped,  and  squared  her  elbows,  looking 
straight  at  him  from  under  her  great  forehead. 


Raldy."  33 


"I'm  setting  you  an  example,  Sim  Peebles,"  she  said 
slowly.  "You're  clever,  and  you're  kind.  You  did  me  a 
great  service  once,  and  I'll  never  forget  it;  but  if  you  had 
half  the  work  in  you  that  I  have,  you  wouldn't  be  so  all- 
possessed  poor  that  you  can't  pay  an  honest  woman  for 
tending  your  wee  bits  and  cooking  your  venison." 

Raldy's  tone  forbade  reply  or  argument,  and  Sim 
Peebles  slunk  guiltily  away. 

A  day  or  two  later  he  came  in  with  a  new  brightness  in 
his  face. 

"Say,  Raldy,"  he  began,  half-sheepishly — for  Sim 
Peebles  had  been  "raised"  in  semi-luxury  in  an  Eastern 
State,  had  loafed  ever  since  he  could  remember,  and 
hardly  knew  whether  the  announcement  which  he  was 
about  to  make  would  be  really  creditable  to  him  or  not 
— "could  you  get  along — I  mean,  would  you  stay  and 
look  after  things  here  till  I  come  back,  if  I  go  up  in  the 
pines  till  spring?" 

Raldy  laughed  a  rather  incredulous  laugh. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  up  in  the  pines?"  she  asked 
at  length. 

"Chop,"  answered  Sim  Peebles  succinctly. 

"Humph!  they've  all  gone  long  ago." 

"No;  there's  a  party  going  up  to  Stevens  Point  next 
week,  and  strike  off  from  there." 

"You  can't  chop,"  said  Raldy  contemptuously. 

"Yes,  I  can,  too." 

"Well,  then,  go."  Raldy  spoke  crustily.  She  would 
not  give  the  peeping  neighbors  any  chance  to  accuse  her 
of  spending  soft  words  on  Sim  Peebles.  Yet,  truth  to 
say,  she  no  longer  held  him  in  the  low  respect  which  she 
had  expressed  in  the  screed  delivered  to  her  gossiping 
3 


34  White   Butterflies. 

neighbors,  and  which  her  language  to  him  would  seem  to 
indicate.  In  these  long,  quiet  weeks  since  she  had  come 
to  live  in  his  humble  cabin,  she  had  detected  in  the  lonely, 
saddened  man  qualities  which  had  softened  her  heart  to- 
ward him.  He  loved  his  children,  and  though  he  knew 
little  enough  how  to  care  for  them,  he  yet  "minded"  them 
devotedly,  in  his  own  rough  way.  Then  Sim  Peebles's 
almost  womanish  face  was  yet  handsome  and  attractive 
when  it  was  clean  and  shaven;  and  one  day  Raldy  had 
come  unexpectedly  upon  him  with  his  eyes  wet  with  tears, 
gazing  upon  a  picture,  which  her  quick  vision  noted,  be- 
fore he  could  put  it  away,  as  a  likeness  of  his  old  mother. 

"Humph!"  said  Raldy  to  herself,  quite  angry  at  a  little 
secret  tenderness  which  the  sight  had  evoked  in  her. 
"Sim  Peebles  puts  on  considerable  about  his  mother;  but 
I  notice  he  didn't  get  her  a  new  dress  while  she  was  here, 
and  if  she  had  enough  to  eat,  it  was  because  she  hoed  the 
clearing  and  dug  the  potatoes." 

Still,  it  was  a  fact,  and  Raldy,  in  a  dim,  unwilling  way, 
knew  it,  that  she  was  daily  growing  to  set  a  higher  value 
upon  Sim  Peebles  than  he  deserved,  and  she  felt  this  more 
definitely  than  before  when  he  told  her  that  he  was  going 
"up  in  the  pines."  There  was  in  her  a  strange,  an  un- 
reasoning aversion  to  having  him  go,  glad  as  she  was  to 
see  him  developing  something  of  the  courage  of  a  man. 

She  had  repelled  so  fiercely  the  young  men  who,  won 
to  admiration  by  her  spirit  and  good  looks,  had  dared  to 
make  her  any  overtures,  that  Raldy  had  never  yet  had  a 
regular  love-affair;  but,  as  is  often  the  case  with  a  strong 
and  self-reliant  woman,  weakness  had  won  where  force 
had  failed.  She  could  not  help  acting  a  little  more  tender 
and  approachable  than  her  wont  as  the  day  drew  near  for 


Raldy.' 


35 


Sim  Peebles  to  go;  and  Sim — poor  Sim,  who  had  come  to 
worship  the  very  ground  that  Raldy  trod — Sim  felt  it,  but 
he  did  not  dare  to  speak. 

He  was  to  start  on  a  Monday,  and  Raldy  had  patched 
and  darned  his  clothes  till  he  was  fit  to  go.  Sunday 
morning  she  went,  as  usual,  to  the  little  Lutheran  chapel, 
the  only  place  of  worship  which  Dearborn  City  afforded, 
and  where  her  mother  had  been  one  of  the  most  devoted 
attendants;  and  having  come  home  again,  she  got  the 
dinner  and  fed  the  children.  Then  she  turned  them  out 
to  play  in  the  clearing,  and  leaving  the  door  ajar — for  it 
was  one  of  the  mildest  and  pleasantest  days  of  early 
winter — she  went  singing  about  her  work.  Sim  Peebles 
watched  her  as  she  moved  here  and  there,  and  Raldy, 
independent  and  imperious  though  she  was,  stole  now  and 
then  a  furtive  glance  at  him. 

"He's  handsome,"  she  thought  dreamily,  as  she  gave 
a  casual  glance  at  Sim's  waving  hair  and  large  brown 
eyes;  "but,"  coming  to  herself  a  little,  "  how  shiftless  he 
is!  But  he's  kind,"  wandering  off  again,  "and  he's  done 
some  brave  deeds — but  no  pride,  no  ambition.  Still,  he's 
honest,"  thought  Raldy  again;  "nobody  ever  said  Sim 
Peebles  wasn't  honest;  there's  nothing  mean  about  Sim 
Peebles,  and  that's  one  reason,"  excusingly,  "why  he's  so 
poor."  Then  her  thoughts  drifted  off  to  what  Mrs.  Jenks 
and  Mrs.  Smith,  her  hateful  neighbors,  would  say,  if  she 
should  happen,  by  chance — of  course  she  wouldn't,  even 
if  Sim  should  ask  her — but  what  would  they  all  say,  what 
would  Mart  say,  if  she  should  ever  happen  to  marry  Sim 
Peebles? 

Here  Raldy  checked  herself,  for  she  was  standing  ab- 
sently, with  a  plate  of  butter  in  her  hand,  the  butter  in 


36  White   Butterflies. 

great  danger  of  slipping,  and  her  song  quite  still.     She 
had  been  singing  the  old  revival  hymn : 

"And  when  I  pass  from  here  to  Thee, 
Dear  Lord,  dear  Lord,  remember  me." 

Sim  saw  his  opportunity,  and  seized  it,  and  as  she 
hurried  into  the  little  pantry  and  out  again,  he  spoke 
quietly  and  earnestly: 

"That's  what  I've  been  thinking,  Raldy — something 
like,  I  mean.  When  I'm  gone  away,  remember  me." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  forget  you,  with  the  youngsters 
under  my  feet  all  day,"  retorted  Raldy,  with  asperity. 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  me  and  mine,"  con- 
tinued Sim,  with  a  choice  of  words  which  proclaimed  an 
early  training  greatly  superior  to  that  of  the  rough  men 
around  him.  Raldy  recognized  this  superiority.  It 
was,  indeed,  one  of  Sim's  strongest  claims  upon  her 
favor.  But  she  was  not  to  be  tempted  from  her  role. 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  had  noticed  it,"  she  said  tartly. 

"Noticed  it!  Why,  Raldy!"  in  a  tone  of  deep  re- 
proach. "And  you  can't  think — I  wanted  to  tell  you 
before  I  went  away — you  can't  think,  Raldy,  how  it  kind 
o'  spurs  me  up  to  try  and  be  somebody.  That's  what 
makes  me  want  to  go  up  river  now.  I  want  to  show 
you,  Raldy — I  want — ."  But  here  Sim  Peebles  choked 
up.  His  courage  had  given  out.  Raldy  felt  hers  ooz- 
ing out  too. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  home  till  supper,"  she  said,  and  she 
darted  away. 

After  supper  she  put  the  children  to  bed,  and  then 
brushed  up  the  hearth  and  put  the  little  cabin  to  rights, 
Sim  meanwhile  devouring  her,  as  usual,  with  his  eyes. 


« Raldy."  37 

Raldy  had  captured  him,  soul  and  body,  and  the  nearer 
he  came  to  the  sublime  sacrifice  which  he  felt  that  he 
was  making  for  her  sake,  the  more  completely  his  pas- 
sion dominated  him. 

Raldy  moved  for  her  hat  and  shawl,  and  murmured 
something,  in  a  manner  strangely  unlike  herself,  about 
"going  home  to  Mart,"  when  Sim  Peebles  caught  her 
hand — no  man  had  ever  dared  to  touch  Raldy  Scott's 
person  before — and  begged  her  to  sit  down  for  a  moment 
with  him  by  the  fire. 

"You  know,"  Sim  said  brokenly,  and  with  a  face  like 
ashes,  "it's  my  last  night,  Raldy."  With  all  his  love,  he 
stood  in  absolute  terror  of  her. 

Raldy  sat  down  with  a  strange  docility,  but  Sim  could 
not  speak,  after  all,  and  they  sat  for  several  moments  in 
silence. 

"Well,"  said  Raldy  at  last,  getting  up  in  her  old  arro- 
gant way,  "I  guess  I'll  go." 

"Say  first,"  said  Sim,  swallowing  hard,  and  catching 
at  her  hand  again,  "tell  me  first,  Raldy,  that  maybe, 
when  I  come  home,  if  I  do  well,  Raldy,  and  turn  out 
better,  that ,"  he  paused. 

"That  what?"  questioned  Raldy,  in  so  gentle  a  tone 
that  Sim  took  heart  wonderfully. 

"That  maybe  you'll — you'll  marry  me,  and  live  here 
always,  and  see  to  the  children." 

It  was  all  out  now,  and  Sim  drew  a  deep  sigh  as  he 
turned  his  handsome,  effeminate  face,  almost  strong  in 
its  expression  of  intense  love,  full  upon  the  strangely 
hesitating  woman. 

Raldy  dropped  into  her  seat  again,  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands.  Then  she  let  them  fall  slowly,  and  said. 


38  White   Butterflies. 

with  a  serious  and  deliberative  air  which  would  have 
daunted  a  less  persistent  suitor: 

"You're  an  honest  fellow,  Sim,  and  you  know  that's- 
a  good  deal  to  me — and  you're  good-looking,  but  I  de- 
clare I  don't  know  of  any  other  earthly  reason  why  I 
should  marry  you.  You  couldn't  support  me.  How 
you  have  had  to  fly  around  to  get  enough  to  eat  since  I 
have  been  here!  And  what  wages  have  you  paid  me?" 

Sim  fairly  cowered  before  her;  but,  with  a  woman's 
perversity,  Raldy  Scott's  love  only  burned  the  more 
fiercely. 

"It's  all  true,"  he  said  mournfully,  "but  don't  you  see, 
Raldy,  I'm  turning  over  a  new  leaf?  I'm  going  to  work, 
and  I'm  going  to  show  you,  and  the  rest  of  them,  that  I, 
can  be  like  other  men." 

As  Raldy  looked  at  him,  a  tear  glittered  in  her  eye. 

"Well,"  she  said,  rising,  and  with  no  hint  in  her  voice 
of  the  tear,  "when  you  come  back'll  be  time  enough  to 
see." 

"Oh,  but  Raldy,"  cried  poor  Sim,  who  had  reached 
just  the  point  where  "despair  sublimes  to  power,"  "won't 
you  tell  me  that  you  love  me — just  a  little?"  He  fell 
on  the  floor  at  her  feet,  and  buried  his  face  in  her  dress. 
"Haven't  you  any  thought  about  me,"  he  went  on  pite- 
ously,  "only  that  I'm  a  worthless  fellow?" 

"Sim,  you  fool,"  said  Raldy,  raising  him  up  with  more 
tenderness  than  her  words  would  seem  to  warrant,  "do 
you  suppose  that  I  would  have  let  you  go  on  this  way  if 
I  hadn't?  Good-by,  Sim;"  and  slipping  away  before  he 
could  stop  her,  Raldy  left  him  with  such  consolation  as 
he  could  gather  from  her  last  remark. 

Sim  did  not  go  till  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning, 
and  meant  to  have  a  few  words  more  with  Raldy  before 


Raldy." 


he  left;  but  she  was  as  cold  and  incisive  as  usual,  when 
she  came  at  daybreak,  and  she  went  about  her  work  in 
a  way  that  precluded  further  conversation.  Once  she 
colored  violently  when  Sim  caught  her  eye,  and  some 
tender  words  rose  to  his  lips  at  the  sight;  but  she  looked 
at  him  again  so  sternly  that  he  was  glad  to  withdraw  into 
himself,  and  dared  not  plead  his  cause  any  further. 

The  days  of  the  winter  wore  slowly  away,  while  Raldy 
did  her  self-appointed  task,  and  bore  unflinchingly  the 
slurs  of  the  gossips  and  the  thousand  little  irksome  trials 
of  her  position.  At  last  the  intense  cold  began  to  yield. 
March  glided  into  April.  The  ice  in  the  river  thawed, 
and  daily  among  its  floating  masses  came  down  great 
rafts  of  logs,  guided  by  sturdy  lumbermen,  whose  cries 
echoed  and  re-echoed  from  the  mighty  walls  of  the  river, 
and  gladdened  the  waiting  hearts  in  the  little  village. 

"When  will  our  men  come?"  an  aged  lumberman,  too 
old  to  go  "up  river"  any  more,  shouted  as  one  great  raft 
became  wedged  between  rocks  and  ice,  near  enough  for 
a  little  conversation  amid  the  tremendous  tumult. 

"In  a  week  or  two,"  shouted  back  a  man  who  lived  at 
the  next  landing,  and  knew  them  well.  There  was  no 
time  for  further  talk,  for  the  great  raft  just  then  made 
free,  and  swung  into  the  current,  and  with  the  loud  cries 
of  the  men  as  they  plied  their  heavy  poles,  and  the  rescu- 
ing and  clambering  up  of  several  who  had  been  swept  off, 
as  they  often  were  in  the  dipping  and  swaying  of  the  raft 
on  its  perilous  passage,  it  was  carried  out  of  sight,  the 
echoes  of  the  hubbub  lingering  long  after  the  vision  had 
vanished. 

All  along  the  straggling,  forlorn,  burned,  stumpy 
street  of  Dearborn  City,  with  its  staring  hotel,  its  half- 
dozen  beer  saloons,  and  its  one  small  meeting-house, 


40  White   Butterflies. 

ran  the  good  news,  "The  men  will  be  back  in  a  week  or 
two."  Raldy  Scott  sang  more  blithely  over  her  work, 
while  visions  of  Sim  Peebles  in  an  absurdly  glorified 
aspect  floated  all  day  through  her  mind,  though,  if  any- 
body had  insinuated  as  much  to  her,  she  might  have 
raised  the  old  shot-gun  in  the  corner,  which  no  man  in 
Dearborn  City  could  handle  better  than  she,  and  have 
shot  him  dead  on  the  spot.  Still,  she  had  to  acknowl- 
edge to  herself  the  alarming  extent  of  her  infatuation, 
and  chide  herself  a  little.  "I  don't  care,"  her  heart  had 
answered;  "there's  something  about  Sim  Peebles  that  I 
like,  and  if  he  likes  me,  what  difference  does  it  make  to 
anybody?  There's  nobody  in  this  world  who  can  dictate 
to  Raldy  Scott";  and  Raldy  drew  herself  up  proudly. 
"He  needs  me — I  can  see  that  I'm  just  the  woman  he 
needs;  and  I  like  weak  creatures.  And  he's  honest,  if 
he  is  shiftless;  he  wouldn't  defraud  a  man  out  of  a  cent." 

Raldy's  straightforward  soul  clung  desperately  to 
that — Sim  Peebles  was  honest.  He  might  drink  some- 
times, though  Raldy  had  never  seen  him  the  worse  for 
liquor,  but  everybody  called  him  "an  honest  fellow." 

"Yes,"  Raldy  said  to  herself  over  and  over  again, 
"he's  a  true,  well-meaning  man,  and  I  like  him;  and  if 
I  want  to  marry  him  when  he  gets  back,  I'll  do  it, 
whether  Mart  or  anybody  objects  or  not." 

The  days  dragged  somewhat  as  a  week  went  by  and 
the  men  did  not  come;  but  Raldy  read  once  again  the 
few  books  which  her  father  had  left  her,  and  which  she 
had  already  worn  threadbare,  did  her  daily  work,  and 
tried  to  be  patient,  and  every  afternoon  she  went  with  the 
children  down  to  the  landing  to  watch  the  rafts. 

It  was  Friday  afternoon,  and  the  April  sunshine  was 
warm  and  bright,  when  the  noise  of  a  great  drive, 


U 


Raldy."  41 


manned  by  strangers,  having  just  died  away,  a  new  one 
was  heard  coming  down  the  Dells.  The  voices  seemed 
to  Raldy's  quick  ear  familiar  ones.  She  had  thrown  her 
long,  heavy  red  cloak,  such  as  all  the  Norse  women  wear, 
around  her  to  cover  her  house  dress,  which  consisted,  as 
her  mother's  had  before  her,  of  a  short  stuff  petticoat  and 
a  black  bodice  over  a  coarse  woollen  waist,  and  she  drew 
her  cloak  closer,  and  gazed  fixedly  up  the  river,  where  the 
rafts  always  shot  suddenly  into  view  around  a  great  bend. 

The  voices  grew  more  distinct:  "Halloo!"  "Bear  a 
hand!"  "Shove  her  in,  boys!"  "Keep  her  steady!"  And 
the  great  drive  came  thundering  into  view,  rising  and 
sinking,  creaking  and  rubbing,  the  strong  poles  keeping 
her  clear  of  the  rocks,  and  the  shouts  of  the  men  coming 
down  with  startling  clearness  on  the  gentle  wind. 

A  cry  arose  from  the  men  on  shore.  Yes,  there  were 
their  friends  and  neighbors,  and  there — there  was  Sim 
Peebles,  straighter  than  his  wont,  standing  on  the  very 
edge  of  the  logs,  ready  to  leap  into  the  current  and  swim 
ashore,  for  it  was  impossible  to  push  the  raft  to  land. 
Half-a-dozen  others  were  beside  him,  mostly  the  older 
ones,  whose  families  needed  them.  The  youngsters  would 
see  the  raft  safe  to  its  destination. 

On  swept  the  great  drive,  the  men  redoubling  their 
cries  as  the  passage  became  narrower  and  more  danger- 
ous; and  just  as  they  shot  under  the  great  white  name  of 
Leroy  Scott,  the  river  pilot,  one  after  another  of  the 
black  figures  who  were  waiting  sprang  into  the  water, 
and  began  to  struggle  for  the  shore. 

Raldy's  pulses  quickened,  and  a  longing  for  her  old 
wild  life  came  over  her.  She  had  more  than  once  made 
that  leap  herself,  and  no  man  of  them  all  had  battled  more 
stoutly  and  resolutely  than  she  with  the  freezing  rapids. 


42  White   Butterflies. 

One  after  another  of  the  swimmers  came  safely  through 
the  two  or  three  rods  of  foaming,  icy  water,  which  were 
all  that  were  necessary  in  order  to  reach  the  shore;  but  as 
Sim  Peebles  sank  after  his  plunge,  a  dozen  floating  logs 
passed  over  him.  The  logs  were  carried  on,  but  he  did 
not  rise;  another  moment;  still  he  did  not  rise. 

Raldy  Scott  paused  for  no  second  thought.  A  strap- 
ping fellow  near  her  was  pulling  off  his  coat;  but  before 
he  could  do  it,  she  had  flung  her  heavy  cloak  aside,  bared 
her  arms,  and  dashed  past  him.  She  was  a  bold  and 
vigorous  swimmer,  and  fought  her  way  desperately  to  the 
place  where  Sim  went  down.  Suddenly  a  man's  white 
face  glared  from  the  water,  ten  feet  away.  His  eyes  were 
set,  and  his  mouth  was  open.  Raldy  struggled  toward 
him,  seized  his  collar,  and  with  the  assistance  of  the  young 
man,  who  had  reached  the  spot  just  in  time  to  help  her 
bring  her  burden  in,  she  towed  him  ashore.  Once  there, 
she  lifted  him  as  though  he  had  been  a  baby,  and  poured 
the  water  from  his  lungs,  loosened  his  coarse  shirt, 
breathed  into  his  bloodless  lips,  and  poured  a  few  drops 
of  brandy  down  his  throat,  chafing  his  hands  and  chest 
meanwhile.  Then  she  listened  for  his  heart-beats,  and  a 
look  of  relief  passed  over  her  stern  face. 

"He  all  right,  boys,"  she  said,  turning  carelessly  to  the 
breathless  crowd  about  her.  "Here,  you  Sam  Jenks,  and 
the  rest  of  you,  you  can  carry  him  home.  You'll  find 
things  all  right  there,"  and  flinging  her  cloak  around  her, 
Raldy  called  the  children  and  strode  off,  and  by  the  time 
the  men  had  fairly  revived  Sim  Peebles,  and  had  got  him 
home,  Raldy  was  at  the  door  to  meet  them,  her  drenched 
clothes  exchanged  for  dry  ones,  and  the  wet  braids  of  her 
fair  hair  alone  revealing  that  she  had  dared,  not  an  hour 


Raldy.' 


before,  the  perils  of  the  Dells  of  the  Wisconsin  for  the 
sake  of  Sim  Peebles. 

"I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Jenks  viciously,  as  she  passed  out 
with  the  rest  of  the  crowd  that  had  seen  Sim  safe  home — 
"I  hope  you'll  get  paid  somehow,  Raldy,  for  all  you've 
done;  and  I  rather  guess,"  with  a  meaning,  and  to  Raldy 
an  utterly  maddening,  leer — "I  rather  guess  you're  going 
to  get  something  or  other." 

Mrs.  Jenks  discreetly  passed  out  of  ear-shot  as  she 
uttered  her  last  words,  the  effect  of  which  upon  Raldy  was 
rather  impaired  by  the  noise  of  the  clink  of  glasses  in  the 
dingy  little  saloon  opposite,  and  the  voice  of  Mr.  Jenks, 
raised  purposely,  so  that  Raldy  might  hear  it — "I  give 
you  Raldy  Scott,  boys,  the  smartest  girl  on  the  Wisconsin 
River." 

Raldy's  training  had  not,  unfortunately,  taught  her, 
much  as  she  disliked  drinking,  to  feel  toward  it  exactly 
as  an  "Ohio  crusader,"  and  she  took  a  grim  satisfaction  in 
imagining  Mrs.  Jenks's  wrath  when  she  too  heard  the 
toast,  as  she  could  not  well  help  hearing  it,  and  in  think- 
ing that  these  rough  men,  no  one  of  whom  would  dare  to 
speak  to  her  save  in  the  deepest  respect,  yet  admired  her 
with  all  their  souls. 

In  a  few  days  Sim  Peebles  was  all  right  again.  He 
seemed  in  excellent  spirits;  but  it  was  not  until  he  had 
been  at  home  for  nearly  a  week  that  Raldy  gave  him  any 
chance  to  "speak  out."  Then  he  contrived  it  only  by 
desperately  barricading  the  door,  and  sitting  down  in 
front  of  it,  just  as  she  was  about  going  home  for  the  night. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  he  said  piteously,  for 
Raldy  was  severely  on  her  dignity. 

Raldy  concluded  to  be  cornered,  and  sat  down  to  listen 
to  him. 


44  White   Butterflies. 

"I've  saved  up  my  pay,"  continued  Sim,  speaking  a 
trifle  hurriedly,  "and  I've  done  well,  Raldy.  I  can  support 
you  well  now.  I  got  an  extra  job  up  there,  and — and 
made  some  money  out  of  that,  and  I've  really  done  well, 
Raldy;  you  ask  the  fellows  if  I  haven't." 

Something  in  his  manner  made  the  quick-witted 
woman  pause  and  look  at  him  suspiciously;  but  as  she 
looked,  she  saw  nothing  but  Sim  Peebles's  handsome  face, 
and  great  pleading  brown  eyes  full  of  adoration  for  her, 
and  she  flung  her  suspicions  to  the  winds. 

"Well,"  she  said  calmly,  "if  you  have  money,  you'll 
find  use  for  it.  I  suppose  you  know  by  this  time  that  I've 
run  up  quite  a  bill  at  the  store  since  you  went  away;  I 
told  them  there  that  I'd  foot  it,  if  you  didn't." 

"I'll  foot  it — I'll  foot  everything,"  said  Sim  deliriously, 
taking  her  nonchalance,  as  well  he  might,  for  direct  en- 
couragement; "I've  got  enough  to  last  us  well  for  a  good 
while,  Raldy.  And  so  it's  all  right,  isn't  it? — isn't  it, 
Raldy?" 

He  rose  to  his  full  height  with  a  sudden  dilation  of  im- 
petuous passion,  which  compelled  the  scornful  woman's 
admiration.  Then  he  stretched  out  his  arms  to  her 
mutely,  and  she  let  them  fold  her  in. 

She  had  been  starved  for  love.  "Now,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, laying  aside  all  of  her  coldness  and  her  asperity — 
"now  I  will  love  him  as  other  women  love.  I  will  marry 
him.  He  has  proved  his  love  to  me.  He  is  going  to  be 
a  different  man,  and  I  am  his  motive.  I  will  believe  in 
him;  I  will  be  a  true  wife  to  him,  and  a  mother  to  his  little 
children."  And  she  did  not  chide  Sim  Peebles  as  he 
rained  kisses  upon  her  fair  hair  and  her  smooth,  broad 
forehead. 


"Raldy."  45 

"To-morrow — to-morrow,  Raldy,"  pleaded  her  intoxi- 
cated lover;  "marry  me  to-morrow!" 

"No,"  Raldy  said  thoughtfully,  becoming  herself  again 
suddenly,  and  tearing  herself  away  from  him — "no;  one 
week  from  to-day  I'll  marry  you,  Sim.  And  if  I  put  this 
trust  in  you,  Sim" — with  a  sudden  quiver  in  the  clear 
voice,  which  thrilled  all  through  Sim  Peebles's  poor  shiv- 
ering soul — "you  won't  disappoint  me,  Sim,  you'll  never 
disappoint  me?" 

"Never,  Raldy,  never,"  he  said,  with  an  almost  manly 
tenderness,  and  he  drew  her  unresisting  face  to  him  and 
kissed  her  once  again  before  she  passed  through  the  door 
to  her  home. 

Raldy's  preparations  for  her  wedding  were  few  and 
very  private.  She  did  not  tell  even  Mart.  "If  I  choose 
to  throw  myself  away,"  she  said  to  herself — for  Raldy 
Scott  knew  well  that  from  the  head  of  the  Wisconsin  to 
the  Mississippi  there  wasn't  a  woman  to  equal  her — "if  I 
choose  to  throw  myself  away  on  Sim  Peebles,  it's  no- 
body's business  but  my  own.  They'll  talk  enough  after- 
ward— and  they  may." 

At  last  came  the  morning  of  the  day  which  Raldy  had 
set  for  her  wedding;  and  Sim  went  about  with  a  look 
of  bliss  upon  his  face  which  would  have  told  the  story  to 
the  whole  neighborhood,  in  spite  of  his  solemn  promise 
to  Raldy  not  to  reveal  it,  if  she  had  not  studiously  kept 
him  busy  upon  the  place  in  making  up  the  garden. 

They  were  to  be  married  at  noon.  Eleven  o'clock  was 
near  at  hand,  and  Raldy  called  out  softly  to  Sim  to  see 
to  the  children.  She  was  going  over  to  Mart's  to  put  on 
her  best  dress,  and  was  hurrying  out  of  the  gate,  when 
she  encountered  Mrs.  Jenks. 

"Good-morning,"  said  that  lady  beamingly. 


46  White   Butterflies. 

Instead  of  pushing  past  her  contemptuously,  as  she 
would  usually  have  done,  something  made  Raldy  stop 
civilly. 

"Glad  to  see  Sim's  getting  ahead  a  little,"  said  Mrs. 
Jenks,  with  a  smirk. 

Raldy  stared  at  her  mutely,  and  did  not  stir. 

"Sorry  he's  come  by  his  money  just  as  he  has,  though," 
went  on  Mrs.  Jenks,  sending  her  shaft  well  home. 

The  color  left  Raldy's  steady  face,  and  her  mind  flew 
back  to  the  momentary  suspicion  with  which  she  had  first 
received  the  news  of  Sim's  good  fortune. 

"How  is  that?"  she  said  imperiously. 

"Oh,  don't  you  know?"  rejoined  Mrs.  Jenks  innocently. 
"All  Dearborn's  talkin'  about  it.  You  kr~-  3im  ain't 
oversmart  about  coverin'  up  his  tracks." 

"Well?"  said  Raldy  breathlessly,  as  her  tormentor 
paused. 

"You  know  old  Jake  Torrey  died  up  in  the  pines  six 
weeks  ago?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  impatiently. 

"And  maybe  you  know  he  died  all  alone  with  Sim 
Peebles?" 

Raldy  did  not  know  it,  but  she  bowed  her  head. 

"At  least,"  said  Mrs.  Jenks  spitefully,  "Sim  thought  he 
was  alone,  but  my  Sam  happened  to  be  within  hearing, 
just  out  of  sight,  and  he  heard  old  Jake  say,  'Take  this 
money,  Sim,  and  send  it  to  my  daughter  in  Varmount,' 
and  he  told  him  where,  and  Sim  writ  it  down,  and,"  went 
on  Mrs.  Jenks,  with  satisfaction  enough  to  atone  for  all 
the  innumerable  slights  and  snubs  that  she  had  received 
at  Raldy's  hands,  "and  then  the  old  man  dropped  away; 
but  Sim,  mind  yer,  he  never  said  a  word,  not  he,  but  he's 
come  all  of  a  sudden  by  a  big  pile,  so  he  makes  his 


« Raldy."  47 

brag — 'extra  job,'  he  says,  I  hear."  And  Mrs.  Jenks 
passed  on. 

Raldy  went  a  few  steps  further,  her  proud  head  bowed 
a  little,  and  her  firm  step  slow  and  faltering.  Then  she 
turned  quickly,  and  re-entered  Sim  Peebles's  little  cabin. 
The  children  were  playing  outside,  and  she  closed  and 
bolted  the  door  behind  her  as  she  went  in.  Then  she 
motioned  to  Sim  to  shX  down  opposite  her.  Her  keen, 
indignant  eyes  searched  him  through  and  through.  He 
looked  back  at  her  for  a  moment  with  all  the  fond  joy  of 
an  expectant  bridegroom.  Then  the  purpose  of  her  gaze 
seemed  to  penetrate  him.  The  light  went  out  from  his 
face,  his  eyelids  drooped,  his  head  fell.  Then  he  groaned 
aloud,  and  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Jenks's  story  was  true. 

"Sim,"  she  said  softly,  "is  it  true?  Tell  me  as  you 
would  tell  your  Maker";  and  there  was  a  ring  in  her  low 
tone  which  compelled  him  to  be  honest  with  her.  "Did 
you  take  that  money  that  Jake  Torrey  left  you  for  his 
daughter,  and  pretend  that  it  was  your  own?" 

"Oh,  Raldy,"  he  began  weakly,  "not  all — oh,  not  nearly 
all.  You  can  write " 

She  interrupted  him  sternly.  "Did  you  take  any  of  that 
money,  Sim?" 

"Just  enough,"  he  said  pleadingly,  "just  enough  to  pay 
me  for  doing  the  business,  you  know,  Raldy — not  much, 
you  know.  Oh,  Raldy,  you  won't  cast  me  off  for  that, 
will  you?  Oh,  not  now,  Raldy,  not  now!"  and  the  man, 
putting  his  head  in  her  lap,  wept  bitterly. 

She  stroked  his  hair  tenderly,  but  her  firm  face  did  not 
weaken. 

"I  have  thought  a  great  deal  of  you,  Sim,"  she  said  in  a 
dry,  hard  voice,  suddenly  rising  and  pushing  him  from 
her,  "but  now  that  I  find  that  you  are  a  mean  and  dis- 


48  White   Butterflies. 

honest  man — that  you  can  cheat  the  dead,  Sim — that's  all 
over.  I  hope  you'll  get  somebody  to  take  care  of  the 
children,  Sim,  for  I  must  go.  I  reckon  I'll  go  down  to 
Fond  du  Lac  or  Milwaukee,  and  go  out  to  service.  Mart's 
married,  and" — wearily — "I  might  as  well." 

She  turned  before  his  face,  unlatched  the  humble 
door,  through  which  an  hour  hence  she  had  thought  to 
walk  as  a  bride,  and  before  he  could  open  his  paralyzed 
lips  to  speak,  she  was  gone.  And  Sim  Peebles  never  saw 
her  again. 


The  Charcoal  Burners. 


THERE  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  The  whole 
long,  undulating  range  of  the  Green  Hills 
stood  out  vividly  in  the  light.  This  made  the 
smoke  rising  from  the  top  of  Sherbury  more  than  usually 
conspicuous.  Sherbury  was  only  a  knoll,  compared  with 
the  loftiest  of  its  neighbors:  but  it  was  peculiarly  placed, 
and  could  be  seen  as  far  up  and  down  the  valley  as  old 
Killington  itself.  Since  Josef  Varvin  had  taken  to  burn- 
ing charcoal  up  there,  people  called  Sherbury  "the  Vol- 
cano." The  old  Frenchman  had  built  half-a-dozen  great 
kilns  on  the  top  of  it,  and  its  vast  forests  were  falling  in 
order  to  feed  them.  It  was  said  that  he  was  growing  rich. 
He  employed  now  about  a  hundred  hands  in  felling  trees 
and  tending  the  kilns.  There  was,  therefore,  quite  a  little 
settlement  on  the  summit  of  Sherbury,  and  the  roads  up 
and  down  its  sides  were  almost  impassable  from  the  wear 
and  tear  of  the  heavy  teams.  Most  of  the  families  who 
lived  in  this  new  "Smoke  City,"  as  it  was  called,  were 
Canadian  French,  like  Josef  Varvin  himself.  There  was 
no  church,  but  once  a  month  the  Catholic  priest  came  up 
there  to  preach  in  the  school-house.  It  was  not  consid- 
ered by  the  inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  country  that 
a  very  high  state  of  civilization  prevailed  in  that  part 
of  Sherbury  township  which  was  known  as  "Smoke 
City." 

It  had  to  be  admitted  by  everybody,  however,  that 
there  was  a  garden  in  Smoke  City  which  could  not  be 
excelled  in  the  whole  State  of  Vermont.     It  belonged 
4  49 


60  White   Butterflies. 

to  Pierre  Beaubien,  who  had  learned  the  florist's  busi- 
ness in  Montreal,  and  it  had  been  wrought  by  him  out 
of  the  primeval  forest  in  the  space  of  only  five  years. 
I  have  said,  "by  him:"  but  Marie,  his  wife,  and  Pier- 
rette, his  daughter,  had  done  as  much  in  the  matter, 
perhaps,  as  had  he  himself.  To  be  sure,  they  kept  a 
houseful  of  boarders  during  the  busy  time,  and  always 
two  or  three,  so  that  their  domestic  cares  were  not  in- 
considerable; but  then  Pierre  had  his  work  at  the  kiln 
to  do  also,  and  sometimes  there  were  whole  days  when 
he  could  not  touch  his  garden  from  morning  to  night. 

On  account  of  this  garden,  in  which  the  Beaubiens 
took  a  justifiable  pride,  it  was  felt  among  their  neigh- 
bors that  they  held  themselves  as  quite  the  aristocracy 
of  Smoke  City.  Old  Adolph  Roney  could  read 
and  write  both  French — Parisian  French — and  Eng- 
lish, and  had  a  shelf  of  books  hanging  in  his  best  room, 
— which  was  also  his  dining-room  and  kitchen,  except 
during  the  warmest  weather.  Pierre  Beaubien  and  his 
wife  could  not  read  a  line  in  either  tongue,  and  his 
eighteen-year-old  daughter,  Pierrette,  had  never  gone 
to  school  until  the  family  had  come  to  Smoke  City,  five 
years  before. 

.  "These  Beaubiens  are  clean  people,  and  they  know 
how  to  make  a  garden,"  old  Adolph  would  growl,  as  he 
sat  smoking  his  pipe  beside  his  kitchen  door,  and  look- 
ing over  toward  the  spring  beauty  bursting  forth  from 
every  nook  and  corner  of  his  neighbor's  far  from  exten- 
sive inclosure  opposite;  "but  why  should  his  Pierrette 
snub  my  Jeanne  and  my  Marceline?  Are  Beaubiens  any 
better  than  Roneys?  Am  I  not  descended  from  that 
famous  count  who  was  one  of  the  generals  of  Louis  XL? 
Have  I  not  read  it  all  in  the  book  on  my  shelf  yonder? 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          si 

And  who  are  they?  They  can  scarcely  tell  the  names 
of  their  own  grandfathers!  Bah!" 

And  yet  old  Adolph  was  nettled  by  the  hauteur  of 
his  neighbors,  though  there  was  an  inexpressive  some- 
thing a.bout  them  which  exacted  deference  from  every- 
body. Even  Josef  Varvin,  while  he  would  not  have 
owned  it  for  the  world,  felt  it;  but  he  was  far  enough 
above  his  laborers  to  feel  rather  proud  of  the  Beaubiens 
and  their  airs,  for  which  he  reasoned  they  had  not  in- 
sufficient grounds.  "He  liked  to  see  the  tall,  straight 
mother  and  daughter — the  daughter  taller  by  a  head — 
moving  aBout  among  their  bright  blossoms,  or  training 
the  peas  and  hops  which  filled  the  ample  vegetable 
patch  behind  the  flowers. 

"At  any  rate,  they  don't  gossip,"  Josef  Varvin  said 
to  his  wife  with  a  grin. 

No,  they  did  not  gossip.  They  were  too  "high  and 
mighty"  for  that.  Still,  even  the  Beaubiens  were  inter- 
ested when  one  day — that  bright  day  when  there  were 
no  clouds,  and  everything  seemed  to  be  at  peace — Larle 
Pichaud  had  a  strange  visitor.  Larle  Pichaud  was  on 
the  very  top  of  a  kiln,  when  the  stage  which  passed 
through  Smoke  City  twice  a  day  came  along.  Suddenly 
the  vehicle  stopped  in  front  of  the  kiln,  and  a  woman 
sprang  down  from  it,  shouting  angrily  the  name  of  the 
handsome  young  charcoal  burner,  and  daring  him  to  come 
and  meet  her.  A  crowd  of  the  villagers  gathered  in  less 
than  ten  minutes,  listening  speechlessly  while  the  woman, 
pale  with  rage,  stood  pouring  out  a  torrent  of  abuse,  in 
mingled  French  and  English,  upon  his  head. 

Even  Marie  and  Pierrette  Beaubien  had  come 
among  the  others,  and  with  open  mouths  had 
watched  Larle  Pichaud,  who  seemed  too  bewildered  to 


52  White   Butterflies. 

know  just  what  to  do,  while  he  scrambled  down  from 
the  kiln  and  stood  before  the  woman,  begging  her  to 
keep  still  and  to  go  to  his  house.  His  young  wife, 
who  was  scarcely  older  than  Pierrette  herself,  and  had 
been  her  schoolmate,  sat,  white  and  scared,  on  a  stump 
near  by,  holding  her  three-months'  baby.  She  was  a 
daughter  of  one  of  the  charcoal  burners,  and  her  father 
and  brothers  also  were  gazing  on  the  scene  with  fierce, 
menacing  brows.  Then  everybody  had  heard  Larle  say, 
"I  thought  you  were  dead,  Aline,"  upon  which  the  wom- 
an had  given  him  the  lie  and  had  sprung  on  him  like 
a  wild  beast.  The  men  standing  by  tore  her  away  from 
him,  but  it  took  four  of  them  to  hold  her  and  get  her 
to  the  cell  at  the  back  of  Josef  Varvin's  barn,  where  of- 
fenders against  the  law  were  usually  locked  up.  Pierrette 
Beaubien  shrieked,  as  did  all  the  other  women,  when 
they  saw  Larle  Pichaud's  face  bleeding,  and  traced  the 
marks  of  the  woman's  nails  on  his  cheeks  and  forehead. 
There  had  never  been  such  a  day  as  that  in  Smoke  City. 
Larle,  as  well  as  the  woman,  was  finally  arrested,  but 
before  many  weeks  he  came  home  to  his  distracted  young 
wife.  The  case  had  been  settled  somehow.  All  that 
the  people  ever  knew  was  that  he  had  made  love  to 
the  hot-blooded  young  creature — who  was,  however,  older 
than  himself — but  had  grown  to  hate  her  because  of 
her  violent  temper,  and  had  broken  off  the  match,  two 
years  or  more  before.  Then  he  had  got  married  at  once 
to  somebody  else.  It  was  easy  enough;  all  the  women 
were  wild  after  him.  Another  story  was  that  the  wronged 
woman  was  always  sweet  and  gentle  until  her  lover  had 
deserted  her,  when  she  had  been  rendered  insane  by  his 
heartlessness,  and  after  brooding  over  her  sorrow  till  she 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  she  had  sought  him  out,  and  at- 


The  Charcoal   Burners.          63 

tacked  him  before  the  very  eyes  of  the  innocent  girl  who 
had  married  him. 

Pierrette  had  her  own  theories  of  the  matter,  and 
from  that  day  she  hated  the  sight  of  the  handsome  char- 
coal burner — by  far  the  handsomest  man  in  Smoke  City 
— though  previously  she  had  greatly  admired  him,  al- 
ways secretly,  and  never  with  any  glow  of  love.  Pier- 
rette had  never  been  in  love  in  her  life,  unless  with  her 
ravishing  beds  of  roses  and  chrysanthemums. 

One  day  she  met  pretty  Fernande  Pichaud  alone  upon 
the  road,  and  said  scornfully  to  her,  "How  could  you 
keep  on  loving  Larle  Pichaud,  and  let  him  come  back 
and  live  with  you?  Do  you  not  believe  that  he  used  to 
love  that  poor  girl  who  flew  at  him?" 

The  young  wife  replied  only  by  a  frightened  sob. 
Pierrette  had  spoken  very  harshly. 

"I  would  die  before  I  would  love  him  again,  after 
that — for  all  his  fine,  black  eyes,"  Pierrette  had  scoffed 
on;  "I  would  rather  die  than  that  he  should  ever  kiss 
me  again." 

Fernande  had  only  cried  the  faster,  and  hugged  closer 
the  babe  in  her  arms  while  she  hurried  away.  Pier- 
rette Beaubien  looked  after  her,  her  strong  proud  face, 
brown  and  firm-set  usually,  now  flushed  and  working 
with  passion.  It  was  clearer  in  her  mind  than  ever — as 
it  might  have  been,  and  probably  was,  in  the  minds  of 
her  neighbors — that  there  was  something  radically  dif- 
ferent in  the  blood  of  the  Beaubiens  from  this  girl's  and 
the  others'. 

"Yes,  I  would  die,"  repeated  Pierrette  to  herself,  as 
she  watched  Fernande  scudding  off  with  her  child;  "I 
would  be  torn  limb  from  limb  before  I  would  let  him 
come  back  to  me.  I  would  take  my  baby  in  my  arms 


54  White   Butterflies. 

and  work  in  the  kilns  as  my  father  does,  before  I  would 
touch  a  cent  of  Larle  Pichaud's  money  again.  I  would 
not  care  how  black  my  face  and  hands  got!  Ugh!" 

That  summer  the  garden  was  a  perfect  dream  of  beauty. 
It  had  never  been  so  fine.  It  was  perhaps  three  acres 
in  extent,  and  was  fenced  about  rudely  but  closely  with 
brush,  over  which  Pierre  Beaubien  had  trained  morning- 
glories  and  convolvulus  and  clematis  and  honeysuckle, 
until  it  was  as  fair  as  the  very  dawn.  It  seemed  as  though 
he  had  but  to  tell  a  vine  to  grow  in  a  certain  way,  in 
order  to  make  it  take  the  direction  he  desired.  There  was 
scarcely  an  uncovered  space  on  the  whole  brush-fence. 
It  was  either  freshly  green  or  gay  with  bloom  every- 
where. 

August  came,  and  the  Beaubien  garden  was  a  tangle 
of  golden  glory.  Most  people  do  not  work  much  in 
their  gardens  in  August,  but  every  morning,  almost  as 
faithfully  as  in  May  and  June,  the  Beaubiens  were  astir 
by  daybreak,  weeding,  watering,  seed-gathering,  train- 
ing. The  other  dwellers  in  Smoke  City  might  call 
them  "cold"  and  "stuck  up,"  but  there  was  a  passion  in 
them  for  this  little  plot  of  ground  and  its  products, 
which  proved  that  their  "coldness"  was  not  a  thing  of 
universal  application.  And  any  one  who  ever  thought 
of  such  subjects  must  have  admitted  that  their  presence 
in  Smoke  City  was  a  distinct  source  of  refinement  and 
elevation  to  the  place — with  its  unpainted  cabins,  its 
smutty-faced  men,  its  swearing  teamsters,  its  unfenced 
door-yards,  still  full  of  stumps  from  the  recent  clearing 
of  its  forests,  and  its  swarms  of  neglected,  jabbering 
children.  There  would  have  been  almost  nothing  to  re- 
deem its  sordidness  and  ugliness,  but  for  that  rare,  sweet 
garden  of  the  proud,  unneighborly  Beaubiens. 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          55 

There  was  a  great  rush  of  business  as  the  fall  came 
on.  The  kilns  had  never  time  to  cool  off.  The  char- 
coal had  to  be  taken  out  almost  before  it  was  well  burned 
through.  Josef  Varvin  was  even  compelled_  to  use  again 
the  large  old  kiln  with  which  he  had  first  begun  the 
business  all  by  himself,  and  which  he  had  not  used  now 
for  several  years.  It  had  not  been  very  strong,  to  begin 
with,  and  at  last  it  had  been  patched  up  with  skins 
and  timbers.  Into  the  deep  earth-hole  beneath  it  a  rude 
causeway  led,  roofed  over  partly  with  earth  and  partly 
v/ith  boards.  It  was  closed  at  the  entrance  with  a 
clumsy,  but  tight-fitting,  door.  One  of  the  hands,  who 
had  gone  in  there  to  warm  himself  on  a  cold  day,  had 
pulled  to  this  door  and  had  fallen  asleep.  He  had  been 
suffocated  by  the  fumes  of  the  charcoal.  Josef  Varvin 
had  found  him  insensible,  and  had  with  his  own  hands 
carried  him  into  the  open  air  and  tried  to  resuscitate 
him,  but  without  success.  The  old  man  had  never  got 
over  the  shock.  He  was  kind-hearted,  and  it  had  quite 
unnerved  him.  The  kiln  had  not  been  used  since  then. 
But  now  sentiment  and  superstition  were  alike  laid  aside. 
Josef  Varvin  must  use  any  means  in  his  power  to  fill 
his  orders.  The  old  kiln  was  repaired  afresh,  and 
once  more  the  slow  smoke  came  curling  out  from  the 
round  hole  in  the  top. 

An  influx  of  new  workmen  came  too.  Within  the 
space  of  a  fortnight  a  dozen  were  added  to  the  force. 
The  September  haze  was  never  so  thick.  The  tourists 
who  climbed  Killington  and  Pico  declared  that  Sher- 
bury  Mountain  must  be  on  fire,  because  it  was  covered 
with  such  a  cloud  of  smoke.  But  all  these  were  only  the 
signs  of  Josef  Varvin's  prosperity.  The  long  loft  above 
the  three  rooms  in  which  the  Beaubiens  lived  had  had 


56  White   Butterflies. 

two  pallets  laid  beside  the  two  beds  there  in  which  their 
regular  boarders  slept,  for  two  new  men  who  could  get  no 
other  resting-place  in  the  crowded  little  city. 

One  day  Adolph  Roney  came  hurrying  into  the  Beau- 
bien  garden,  where  his  neighbors  were  hard  at  work. 

"A  new  man  has  come,  Pierre,"  he  said,  deferentially. 
"He  is  a  nephew  of  mine — Andre  Reboul.  But  I  can- 
not take  him,  for  my  house  is  full.  We  would  like  to 
have  him  near  us,  and  we  all  know  how  well  Madame 
Beaubien  would  feed  him.  Cannot  you  make  room  for 
him?" 

It  was  finally  decided  that  another  pallet  could  be  laid 
upon  the  already  well-filled  floor  of  the  Beaubien  loft, 
and  one  was  hastily  constructed.  The  Beaubiens  were 
thrifty.  They  meant  to  gather  in  all  the  pennies  that 
they  found  in  their  way.  That  night  Andre  Reboul 
slept  on  the  new  husk  pallet,  and  the  next  morning  he 
ate  an  abundant  portion  of  the  savory  croquettes  which 
Pierrette  fried  for  breakfast. 

He  was  a  tall,  strong,  good-looking  fellow — this  new- 
comer. Pierrette  was  half  a  head  taller  than  her  father, 
but  Andre  Reboul  was  a  head  taller  than  she.  He  car- 
ried himself  well.  He  was  not  handsome  with  the  pic- 
turesque beauty  of  Larle  Pichaud,  but  he  had  a  firm, 
well-curved  cheek,  a  flowing  black  mustache,  a  master- 
ful dark  eye,  and  a  well-set  head.  His  voice  was  a  trifle 
harsh  and  thick,  and  he  spoke  no  English.  He  watched 
Pierrette  sharply  while  she  served  the  breakfast.  It  was 
a  new  thing  for  her  to  be  much  noticed  by  men.  Her 
face  was  irregular,  and  her  nose  had  a  contemptuous  turn 
to  it  which  was  not  likely  to  please  a  stranger,  while  her 
tongue  was  well  supplied  with  stinging  words,  which  she 
bestowed  freely  upon  those  who  did  not  please  her.  She 


The  Charcoal   Burners.          57 

liked  the  appearance  of  old  Adolph's  nephew,  however, 
and  did  not  resent  his  observation.  She  was  even 
pleased  when  she  fancied  that  his  tone  softened  in  ad- 
dressing her.  Seeing  him,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her, 
was  like  finding  a  plant  in  bloom  which  she  had  never 
seen  before.  There  was  an  interest  in  it. 

When  the  dishes  were  washed,  the  kitchen  swept,  and 
the  soup  set  boiling  for  dinner,  Pierrette  went  out  to 
her  garden,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  get  along  very  fast. 
Instead  of  cutting  away  dead  stalks  and  collecting  the 
seeds  in  little  papers,  as  she  had  been  set  to  do,  she  found 
herself  leaning  against  the  trellises  and  holding  her  shears 
absently  in  her  hands,  while  she  looked  toward  the 
woods  in  which  the  old  kiln  lay.  Andre  Reboul  was  at 
work  there.  She  imagined  him  coming  along  the  road 
to  his  dinner.  Then  she  was  seized  with  a  sudden  spasm 
of  fear  lest  the  soup  should  burn,  and  she  hurried  into  the 
house  to  look  after  it.  When  she  came  out,  her  mother 
said,  "Why  did  you  go  in,  child?" 

"I  wanted  to  see  if  the  soup  was  burning." 

"How  could  it?"  asked  her  mother  almost  angrily. 
Had  not  the  soup  boiled  calmly  away  on  the  stove  every 
morning,  now  these  many  years?  Was  the  girl  going 
crazy? 

It  seemed  a  long  time  to  Pierrette  before  the  sun 
had  reached  the  middle  of  his  course.  The  table  had 
been  laid.  (There  was  no  cloth  on  the  Beaubien  table 
except  on  feast  days.)  Everything  was  shining  neat. 
The  soup  was  done  to  a  turn — thick  with  peas  and  len- 
tils and  garlic.  The  tall  young  figure  of  Andre  Reboul 
came  out  from  between  the  trees  and  into  the  road,  just 
as  Pierrette  had  pictured  it.  There  were  six  other  men 
in  the  family,  all  of  them  young  and  not  ill-looking. 


58  White   Butterflies. 

Only  two  of  them  were  married.  They  were  to  bring 
their  families  down  to  Smoke  City  soon,  if  Josef  Varvin 
should  decide  that  he  would  want  them  during  the  win- 
ter. Pierrette  had  seen  the  others  come  to  their  dinners 
now  for  many  a  day — yet  she  had  not  watched  for  any 
one  of  them  to  appear  in  sight  upon  the  road.  As  she 
turned  back  to  place  the  mustard  on  the  table  and  get 
the  tea,  a  sudden  thought  came  over  her.  Did  that 
foolish  wife  of  Larle  Pichaud  like  to  see  him  coming 
along  the  road  as  she,  Pierrette  Beaubien,  liked  now  to  see 
this  stranger?  Perhaps  Fernande  Pichaud  had  liked  to  see 
him  as  much  when  she  had  known  him  only  as  long.  Per- 
haps she  had  kept  liking  it  better  and  better  day  by  day 
through  all  those  months.  If  she  had — a  sudden  under- 
standing of  the  case  came  over  the  mind  of  the  simple, 
haughty  French  girl. 

When  the  twilight  drew  on,  Pierrette  strayed,  as  usual, 
out  into  the  garden.  Some  of  the  men  followed,  and 
strolled  up  and  down  the  borders,  smoking  their  pipes 
and  talking  together.  There  were  great  bowers  of  nas- 
turtiums in  bloom.  The  beds  of  marigolds  sent  up  a 
pungent  odor.  Long  lines  of  brilliant,  speared  gladiolus 
seemed  to  be  marching  with  banners  across  the  garden. 
Bushes  of  blood-red  salvia  were  just  beginning  to  flower. 

"You  did  not  cut  away  this  bed  of  withered  stalks,  as 
I  bade  you  this  morning,"  grumbled  Pierre  Beaubien  to 
his  daughter  as  she  came  dreamily  along  the  path. 

"I  worked  all  the  morning,"  she  protested. 

"Oh,  but  so  slow!  Mon  Dieu!  I  watched  you.  You 
dropped  your  shears  a  dozen  times.  You  are  getting 
too  vain.  Why  is  your  hair  braided  so  finely  this  even- 
ing?" 

Pierrette's  brown  face  flushed  like  the  salvias.     She 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          59 

tossed  her  head,  and  drew  herself  up  until  she  towered 
far  above  her  shrunken  little  father. 

"You  want  me  like  the  Roneys  and  the  Bellons,  then?" 
she  said,  scornfully.  "You  would  like  my  hair  hanging 
off  in  little  locks  all  over.  That  would  be  very  tidy,  I 
think!  People  might  at  least  keep  themselves  as  well  as 
their  gardens." 

She  tossed  her  head  again  and  walked  away.  She  was 
in  no  mood  to  be  scolded.  She  had  hoped  that  Andre 
Reboul  would  come  out  into  the  garden  after  supper, 
like  the  other  men,  but,  instead,  he  had  gone  over  to  see 
his  cousins.  It  piqued  her  very  much.  The  next  few 
days  she  scarcely  spoke  to  him,  and  she  kept  her  fine, 
gray  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  whenever  he  drew  near. 

A  week  passed  by,  and  Andre  Reboul  had  not  yet 
walked  in  the  garden  with  the  other  men  in  the  twilight. 
Some  evenings  he  had  had  to  go  down  and  watch  the 
old  kiln.  Generally  he  spent  the  time  with  the  Roneys. 
Pierrette  could  hear  their  gay  voices  as  they  talked, 
though  seldom  his.  He  was  either  very  shy  or  very 
morose.  At  any  rate,  he  said  little,  and  he  spoke  almost 
always  in  that  harsh,  forbidding  tone.  But  Pierrette 
still  fancied  that,  when  he  spoke  to  her,  his  voice  sounded 
different.  She  would  not  care  for  that,  however,  she  told 
herself.  He  did  not  seem  to  seek  her  society,  and  she 
was  determined  that  she  would  be  as  distant  as  he  was. 

On  the  evening  of  the  tenth  day  after  Andre  Reboul 
came  to  live  in  the  Beaubien  household  he  did  not  go 
down  to  the  old  kiln,  nor  over  to  the  next  house.  Two 
or  three  of  the  boarders  sat  down  on  the  rough  door-step 
and  smoked  their  pipes;  the  others  strolled  about  aim- 
lessly, as  usual.  Pierre  and  Marie  were  picking  late 
beans,  hurrying  to  get  in  all  that  they  could  before  dark. 


60  White   Butterflies. 

Pierrette  was  clattering  the  dishes  in  the  kitchen.  One 
of  the  young  men  came  in  and  asked  her  for  a  drink 
of  water  from  the  pump  in  the  sink.  She  gave  it  to  him, 
good-humoredly  enough,  and  then  he  lingered  a  moment, 
chaffing  her. 

The  sound  of  his  bantering  voice  and  a  brief  word  or 
two  from  her  came  plainly  out  at  the  door.  Suddenly 
Pierrette  said,  loudly  and  crossly,  "I  would  thank  you 
to  go  about  your  business!"  and  the  young  fellow  came 
slinking,  with  a  flushed  face,  out  along  the  pathway. 
Shortly  afterward  Pierrette  came  out  also.  Her  move- 
ments were  slow  and  sulky,  but  she  held  herself  up  as 
proudly  as  ever.  She  made  her  way  to  the  aster  bed 
and  stood  there,  gazing  down  at  the  beautiful  flowers, 
which  the  two  or  three  light  frosts  of  September  had 
not  injured.  To-night  it  was  as  warm  as  early  August. 
The  flowers  seemed  to  revel  in  the  heat  as  though  they 
knew  it  would  soon  fail  them. 

Pierrette  had  not  noticed  that  Andre  Reboul  was  lean- 
ing against  the  house  when  she  came  out.  She  had  been 
too  angry  with  Nicholas  Coigny,  who  had  just  tried  to 
kiss  her,  to  pay  much  attention  to  her  surroundings,  and 
she  supposed  that  Andre  had  gone  over  to  see  his 
cousins. 

Presently  she  was  aware  that  there  was  some  one  be- 
side her,  and  she  started  a  little  when  the  voice  of  Andre 
Reboul  said  softly,  in  his  thick,  broad  French:  "You 
like  these  flowers  the  best?" 

"No — no,"  stammered  Pierrette,  warm  waves  of  color 
chasing  each  other  over  her  strong  French  face;  "I  like 
them  all — some  at  one  time,  some  at  another." 

"You  have  been  troubled,"  he  went  on,  looking 
squarely  into  her  eyes. 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          6i 

"I — I  did  not  say  so." 

"Oh,  no!"  The  tall  stranger  spoke  a  little  bitterly. 
"You  tell  me  nothing.  You  speak  to  me  as  though — 
as  though  I  were  a  lump  of  charcoal.  Mon  Dieu!  I 
might  be  a  dog!" 

"I?"  The  girl  lifted  her  thick,  black  eyebrows,  in- 
credulously. "I — I  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  you.  I — I 
thought  that  it  was  you  that  treated  me  as  though  I 
were  a  dog." 

Then  they  laughed  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"I  have  wanted  to  come  out  into  the  garden  every 
evening,"  he  said,  "but  I  was  afraid  that  you  would 
snub  me." 

"Oh,  you  must  have  known  better!"  she  smiled  back 
to  him,  reprovingly.  "I  would  have  liked  to  have  you 
come." 

"Mon  Dieu!    Why  did  you  not  say  so?" 

"I  am  not  running  after  people  to  come  and  walk  in 
my  garden!" 

They  both  laughed  again.  It  seemed  as  though  a  chain 
had  been  subtly  clasped,  joining  them  together  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye. 

Silently  they  walked  along  to  the  other  end  of  the 
garden.  The  dew  was  as  heavy  as  in  midsummer,  and 
the  vines  shed  drops  upon  them  as  they  passed.  Pier- 
rette was  almost  trembling  with  a  new  excitement.  She 
thought,  in  her  dim,  unreasoning  way,  that  it  was  a 
kind  of  reaction  from  her  wrath  at  Nicholas  Coigny. 
They  stood  still  at  last  behind  the  trellis  covered  with 
nasturtiums.  No  one  could  see  them.  Pierre  and  Marie 
had  just  gone  in,  treading  heavily  with  their  baskets  of 
beans. 

"That  little  idiot  of  a  fellow  troubled  you  just  now  m 


62  White   Butterflies- 

the  kitchen?"  began  Andre  Reboul,  recurring  to  his  for- 
mer topic. 

"He  tried  to  kiss  me!" 

Pierrette  threw  back  her  shoulders  and  tossed  her 
head. 

"He  was  not  so  much  to  blame!  But  all  the  same,  I 
came  near  rushing  at  him  and  pitching  him  over  the 
roof."  The  stalwart  young  fellow  made  a  significant 
motion  upward  with  his  outstretched  arms. 

"I  would  have  liked  to  see  you!  Why  did  you  not 
do  it?" 

"I  thought  you  would  probably  raise  yourself  up  as 
you  did  just  now  and  say,  'Andre  Reboul,  leave  me  to 
manage  my  own  affairs !'  " 

"No — I  should  have  thanked  you." 

"Sacre!  How  is  one  to  tell  what  a  girl  will  like!  You 
have  said  such  short  words  to  me!" 

"Nicholas  Coigny  knows  well  that  most  of  the  girls 
in  Smoke  City  like  that  sort  of  thing.  Oh,  I  have  seen 
them!  But  I  am  not  of  that  kind.  No  man  has  ever 
kissed  me — and  I  have  made  every  man's  ears  burn  who 
has  tried  it.  But,"  she  added  under  her  breath,  "I  am 
not  pretty  like  Estelle  Bellon  and  Fernande  Pichaud." 

"You  are  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"Oh!"  she  laughed,  coquettishly,  "I  have  heard  that 
men  talk  in  that  way  just  to  flatter.  I  know  how  I  look. 
I  am  brown.  I  do  not  wear  a  veil  like  Estelle,  and " 

"Stop!  stop!    I  will  not  let  you!" 

"Yes,"  she  persisted,  playfully,  "my  nose  is  too  big, 
and  my  eyes  are  too  big.  Oh,  I  am  the  homeliest  girl 
in  Smoke  City!" 

"I  would  rather  look  at  you  and  hear  you  talk  than 
all  the  girls  I  have  ever  seen  in  my  life!" 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          63 

"Oh!"  she  went  on,  still  laughingly;  "it  is  likely 
that  you  talk  so  to  girls  very  often.  I  have  heard  that 
men  do.'' 

The  young  Frenchman's  dark,  well-shaped  face 
flushed. 

"Before  God,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  passionate  voice  which 
frightened  her,  "I  never  said  so  to  any  woman  before. 
I  thought  it  when  I  saw  you  that  first  night,  but  I  did 
not  imagine  I  should  ever  dare  to  tell  you  so.  I  dreamed 
of  you  all  night  long." 

"And  yet  you  did  not  come  into  the  garden,"  she  mur- 
mured, reproachfully. 

"I  did  not  dare  to,  I  tell  you.  You  seemed  so  cold 
toward  me,  I  thought  you  despised  me.  They  told  me 
that  you  did  despise  everybody." 

"I  do,"  cried  Pierrette,  with  a  proud  little  laugh, 
"everybody  but  you!" 

"I  think  you  must  despise  me  when  I  come  in  all  black 
from  the  kiln.  You  are  very  neat.  I  never  saw  a  girl 
so  neat." 

Pierrette  blushed  with  pleasure.  She  was  neat,  and 
she  knew  it. 

"I  would  not  despise  my  good  father,"  she  retorted. 
"He  has  to  get  all  black,  like  the  rest.  I  think  I  like  you 
best  with  the  charcoal  all  over  your  face  and  hands. 
Somehow  you  look  bigger  and  stronger  then!" 

They  walked  slowly  toward  the  house,  in  response  to 
a  sharp  summons  from  Marie.  The  damp  chills  of  the 
September  night  were  beginning  to  make  themselves  felt 
through  the  heat.  Killington  and  Pico  stood  out  from 
among  the  shadows  opposite,  side  by  side,  straight,  steep, 
towering  up,  as  though  with  their  needle-like  points  they 
would  pierce  the  very  mysteries  of  the  heavens.  The 


64  White  Butterflies. 

man  went  directly  to  his  pallet  in  the  loft  above,  whither 
all  of  his  companions  had  repaired  before  him,  while 
Pierrette  assisted  her  mother  in  some  final  household 
labor.  Her  father  was  already  asleep  in  the  little  bed- 
room opening  off  from  one  end  of  the  kitchen,  and  Pier- 
rette entered  presently  her  own  tiny  closet  at  the  other 
end;  but  when  they  were  all  quiet,  she  stole  out  under  the 
stars  to  look  at  the  mountains  again.  She  had  always 
loved  to  see  them,  but  now  she  felt  a  deeper  interest  in 
them  than  ever. 

"They  must  love  each  other — like  people,"  she  mused, 
in  her  childish  way.  "How  many,  many  years  they  must 
have  stood  side  by  side!" 

As  she  gazed,  the  same  inexplicable  feeling  filled  her 
which  she  experienced  when  she  looked  at  her  garden 
in  its  splendor,  in  the  first  exulting  flush  of  some  fortu- 
nate morning. 

"It  must  be  beautiful  to  stand  so — always  beside  the 
one  you  love — as  they  do,"  she  murmured.  Then  sleep- 
iness overcame  her  unwonted  sentimentalism,  and  she 
crept  off  to  her  poor  little  bedroom;  but  she  tossed  un- 
easily, instead  of  falling  into  her  usual  sound,  dreamless 
slumber. 

The  chief  events  of  her  meagre  little  life  seemed  to 
pass  in  review  before  her.  The  principal  one  was  the 
affair  of  Larle  Pichaud.  She  had  never  until  lately  been 
able  to  consider  the  conduct  of  his  silly  little  wife  without 
a  curl  of  the  lip.  Now  that  conduct  seemed  no  longer 
contemptible.  It  might  be  possible  to  cling  to  a  man 
through  everything — and  very  sweet.  Things  had  never 
looked  to  her  as  they  looked  to-night. 

The  next  two  weeks  were  like  a  dream  to  Pierrette. 
The  cold  weather  hung  off.  It  was  nearly  the  first  of 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          65 

October,  yet  still  the  hard  frosts  delayed,  and  the  warm, 
bewitching  evenings  continued.  There  had  been  no 
farther  misunderstanding  between  Pierrette  and  Andre 
Reboul.  The  two  shy,  proud  souls,  unlearned  as  they 
were  in  the  world's  wisdom,  had  studied  and  compre- 
hended each  other,  once  for  all.  Kisses  had  passed  be- 
tween them  now,  and  they  had  told  each  other  of  their 
love,  but  no  word  had  been  uttered  regarding  marriage. 
It  was  all  too  sacred  and  too  new  for  that. 

"I  am  not  like  these  girls  around  here,"  Pierrette 
Beaubien  said  to  herself.  "Now  there  was  Fernande. 
She  had  not  known  Larle  Pichaud  a  month  before  they 
were  married.  They  know  nothing  of  such  heavenly  joy 
as  mine — any  more  than  they  can  make  or  understand  a 
garden  like  ours.  And  Andre  is  different.  Mon  Dieu! 
How  glad  I  am  that  we  are  different  from  these  rude 
creatures.  He  has  never  kissed  any  one  but  me,  I  have 
never  kissed  any  one  but  him — yet  I  am  eighteen  and  he 
is  twenty.  What  is  a  kiss  to  these  people?  It  is  nothing!" 

October  came  in  cold  and  crisp,  at  last.  The  won- 
derful garden  was  all  ready  for  winter.  The  outside 
doors  were  shut,  and  the  warm  mists  from  the  kitchen 
filled  the  little  cabin. 

One  afternoon  the  work  was  done  early,  and  Pierrette 
was  sitting  by  the  window  sewing.  It  was  a  gray,  chilly 
day,  and  the  indefinable  sadness  of  autumn  was  heavy 
in  the  air.  The  happy  young  girl  felt  it,  in  spite  of  her 
joy.  Every  one  knew  now  that  Andre  Reboul  was  her 
lover.  Pierre  and  Marie  were  not  pleased.  They  did  not 
see  how  they  were  going  to  get  along  without  Pier- 
rette, and  they  felt  a  certain  fear  of  the  still,  harsh-voiced 
young  fellow  who  had  come  among  them  so  recently. 
The  mother  muttered  fretfully  when  Pierrette  went  into 
5 


66  White   Butterflies. 

the  little  shed  for  wood  and  Andre  followed  after  her, 
ostensibly  to  help  her,  but  really,  as  Marie  knew,  to 
snatch  a  kiss  from  her  proud  daughter. 

"Who  knows  what  he  thinks,  or  what  he  has  been  do- 
ing all  his  life?"  she  flung  out  crossly  to  her  daughter. 

"He  is  Adolph  Roney's  sister's  son,"  returned  Pier- 
rette, calmly,  but  with  a  bright  red  spot  burning  in  each 
cheek. 

"Oh,  how  he  mumbled  when  he  told  your  father  that 
he  wanted  you!"  sniffed  the  older  woman.  "And  who 
are  the  Roneys?  What  kind  of  a  kitchen  does  Marie 
Roney  keep?  And  such  soup!  And  the  beds!  Adolph 
Roney !  Faugh !" 

Pierrette's  face  flamed  angrily,  but  still  she  said  noth- 
ing. She  thought  of  the  silent  mountains.  Like  Killing- 
ton  and  Pico,  her  lover  and  she  were  to  stand  side  by 
side  forever. 

As  she  sat  this  afternoon,  looking  out  at  the  ugly, 
deep-rutted  road,  and  glancing  now  and  then  to  where 
the  smoke  was  curling  up  from  the  woods  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  old  kiln,  she  saw  the  Sherbury  stage  coming. 
It  stopped  in  front  of  Adolph  Roney's — a  most  uncom- 
mon proceeding — and  a  woman  was  helped  out  of  it. 
She  was  a  young  woman,  though  apparently  some  years 
older  than  Pierrette,  and  was  very  smartly  dressed. 
Through  her  flimsy  dotted  veil  her  face  shone  red  and 
white.  Pierrette  gazed  fixedly  at  this  strange  vision. 
Her  work  fell  from  her  hands.  The  little  school-house 
near  by  began  to  belch  forth  a  tumultuous  stream  of 
girls  and  boys.  These  also  saw  the  new-comer  picking 
her  way  daintily  up  the  path  which  led  from  the  street 
to  Adolph  Roney's  door.  The  white-haired  old  French- 
man happened  to  be  at  home,  and  he  stood  staring  at 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          67 

the  woman,  who  was  evidently  an  unexpected  guest. 
The  children  stood  still  in  a  body,  and  contemplated 
the  scene  with  undisguised  interest.  When  Pierrette 
saw  them,  she  resumed  her  work.  She  was  not  going  to 
stare  like  them. 

Some  time  elapsed — long  enough  for  the  children  to 
disperse  to  their  homes — and  then  Adolph  Roney  came 
out  of  his  door  with  the  stranger.  They  turned  toward 
the  cabin  of  the  Beaubiens.  Pierrette  felt  a  strange  sink- 
ing at  her  heart  as  she  saw  them.  Perhaps  they  would 
go  past.  No — they  stopped,  and  came  up  to  the  door. 
They  knocked,  and  Pierrette  went  to  let  them  in.  Her 
strong  young  frame  trembled  when  she  saw  that  Adolph 
Roney's  kind  old  face  looked  troubled.  The  face  of  the 
young  woman  with  him  looked  saucy — even  insolent. 

"This  is  Miss  Delia  Redmond,  Pierrette,"  he  said, 
briefly.  Pierrette  nodded  her  head  stiffly,  and  glared  at 
the  gaudily-arrayed  creature  before  her. 

"I  suppose  Andre  is  down  at  the  old  kiln?"  went  on 
Adolph  Roney.  Pierrette  nodded  again,  speechlessly. 

"You  can  come  in  and  wait  for  him,  madame,"  he 
said  courteously  to  his  companion. 

"I  guess  I  won't,"  snapped  the  young  woman,  with  a 
viciousness  which  completed  Pierrette's  horrible  dismay. 
"He'll  be  surprised  enough  to  see  me.     I'll  come  over 
after  supper.    I  want  the  fun  of  walking  right  in  on  him." 
There  was  a  disagreeable  tang  to  her  words. 
"Don't  say  anything  about  my  coming,  please,"  she 
concluded,  as  she  turned  away.    She  made  a  supercilious 
gesture  toward  the  French  girl,  and  gave  her  a  brilliant, 
ugly  smile  as  a  parting  salute. 

Delia  Redmond  was  fair-skinned  and  blue-eyed — an 
Irish  girl,  as  Pierrette  could  tell  by  her  talk,  though  she 


68  White   Butterflies. 

had  used  French  words  as  though  she  could  talk  French 
if  she  chose.  She  had  an  experienced,  self-confident  air. 
She  evidently  knew  what  she  was  about.  In  her  fierce, 
undisciplined  young  soul  Pierrette  Beaubien  hated  her. 

It  was  six  o'clock,  and  the  blackened  troop  of  charcoal 
burners  came  straggling  along  the  road  to  their  suppers. 
Among  them  was  Andre  Reboul.  Pierrette  hardly  knew 
what  she  was  doing  as  she  put  the  victuals  upon  the 
table.  The  men  ate  heartily,  but  she  could  not  taste  of 
the  porridge  which  her  mother  had  seasoned  so  carefully. 
Every  moment  she  kept  imagining  that  she  heard  foot- 
steps at  the  door  and  that  Delia  Redmond  was  coming. 
But  the  men  finished  eating,  and  yet  she  had  not  come. 

Pierrette  now  could  only  long  for  a  chance  to  tell 
Andre  of  the  expected  visitor.  He  ought  to  be  warned 
against  this  wicked  creature,  who,  Pierrette  felt  sure, 
meant  no  good  to  him. 

As  she  passed  the  window,  the  moon — a  glorious  hun- 
ter's moon — was  just  rising.  She  would  ask  him  to  come 
and  see  it. 

"Look,  Andre,"  she  whispered,  pointing  up  at  it; 
"come  out  on  the  doorstep  with  me,  and  watch  the  moon 
rise." 

As  the  door  closed  behind  them,  she  caught  his  hand 
eagerly. 

"Some  one  is  coming  to  see  you  right  away,  Andre," 
she  stammered,  incoherently.  "She  will  be  here  before 
you  know  it.  She  has  some  grudge  against  you,  I  think. 
She  says  her  name  is  Delia  Redmond.  Who  is  she, 
Andre?" 

"What\do  you  say,  Pierrette?"  he  asked,  staring  at  her, 
and  his  thick  French  sounding  thicker  than  usual. 

"Delia — Delia  Redmond.    She  is  coming.    Mon  Dieu! 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          69 

I  fancy  I  hear  her  this  minute!  She  seems  angry  with 
you.  She  says  she  wants  to  surprise  you." 

"D n  her!"  he  muttered.  •  He  looked  around,  as 

though  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  escape.  There  had 
been  such  a  look  on  Larle  Pichaud's  face  when  the 
woman  had  come — a  woman  whom  the  stage  brought, 
just  as  it  had  brought  Delia  Redmond — to  accuse  him. 
An  awful  fear,  which  had  been  gathering  in  Pierrette's 
innocent  heart  for  the  past  hour,  began  to  put  on  a 
definite,  blood-curdling  shape. 

"What  will  she  do  to  you,  Andre?"  she  whispered, 
weeping  and  winding  her  strong  young  arms  around 
him.  "Run  away  and  hide,  Andre!  Quick!  I  will  see 
her.  Oh,  I  will  tear  her  eyes  out!  I  will  kill  her!" 

"No,  no!"  he  muttered;  "I  will  see  her,  and  I  will 
make  it  right  with  her.  I  can't  now,  but  I  can  soon — 
very  soon — and  then  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  Pier- 
rette. I  should  not  have  done  it,  but " 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  shook  himself  from  Pier- 
rette's trembling  embrace.  There  was  a  patter  of  foot- 
steps on  the  path.  Adolph  Roney  had  some,  and  with 
him  was  Delia  Redmond. 

Andre  braced  his  broad  back  against  the  door  and 
faced  the  new-comers,  looking  straight  into  the  woman's 
smirking  countenance.  The  moon  shone  full  upon  him. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Reboul,"  she  said  in  French,  and 
with  an  affectation  of  great  deference.  "I  suppose  you 
thought  you  had  hidden  yourself  pretty  well,  but  I  have 
found  you  at  last.  Where  is  that  letter  that  you  prom- 
ised I  should  have  a  month  ago?" 

"I  have  found  you  at  last!"  Those  were  the  exact 
words  of  the  woman  who  had  attacked  Larle  Pichaud. 
Pierrette  heard  nothing  more.  She  slunk  to  one  side 


70  White   Butterflies. 

among  the  shadows,  and  leaned  fainting  against  a  lilac 
bush  which  grew  there.  Then  a  sudden  flare  of  light  ap- 
peared, as  some  one  from  within  opened  the  door.  When 
she  came  to  herself,  she  saw  Andre  walking  off  with 
Adolph  and  the  woman  in  the  direction  of  the  Roneys'. 
She  was  completely  chilled  through,  but  she  felt  as 
though  she  could  not  face  the  scrutiny  of  her  father  and 
mother.  Where  could  she  go  to  get  warm?  Oh,  there 
was  the  old  kiln!  There  was  a  great  fire  going  there, 
she  knew,  and  the  passage-way  dug  in  the  earth  was  dark 
and  shut  away  from  all  peering  eyes. 

"A  man  was  killed  there  once,  I  know,"  she  murmured 
dully  to  herself,  "but  I  am  not  afraid.  I  should  not  care 
if  I  were  killed,  too.  At  least,  I  should  be  warm  there 
— and  what  have  I  to  live  for,  anyway?  People  will  de- 
spise me  after  this,  if  I  cling  to  Andre — just  as  I  despised 
Fernande  Pichaud.  Everybody  will  know  about  this 
woman  by  to-morrow,  and  how  they  will  hoot  at  me  in 
their  homes.  They  will  say,  'That  proud  girl  of  Pierre 
Beaubien's  was  deceived,  as  if  she  had  been  any  com- 
mon, empty-headed  thing.'  For  that  Delia  Redmond 
must  have  loved  Andre,  just  as  that  poor  woman  had 
loved  Larle  Pichaud — and  he  might  have — yes — he 
might  have  told  her  that  he  loved  her  and  have  kissed 
her  as  he  kissed  me.  Oh,  if  I  had  only  died  last  night! 
Then  I  should  never  have  known  this!  Yet  I  love  him 
so!  I  would  give  anything  to  have  him  fold  me  in  his 
arms  just  once  more!" 

Growing  wilder  and  wilder  as  she  stumbled  on,  she 
reached  the  old  kiln.  The  great,  rough  door  at  the  end 
of  the  passage-way  fell  toward  her  as  she  pulled  at  it, 
and  bruised  her,  but  she  lifted  it  easily  and  put  it  in 
place  behind  her.  As  she  had  mused,  the  fire  within 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          71 

her  had  burned.  When  she  had  made  the  place  all  dark 
and  close,  she  threw  herself  on  the  earth — warm  and 
grateful  from  the  fire  so  near — and  sobbed  despairingly. 

"Mother  of  God!"  she  prayed,  over  and  over.  "My 
heart  is  broken!  Help  me!  Help  me!" 

*  *  *  * 

The  next  morning  Andre  Reboul  came  down  to  his 
kiln.  He  was  in  a  daze  of  unhappiness  between  his  ex- 
periences of  the  previous  evening  and  the  disappearance 
of  Pierrette,  for  whom  he  and  several  others  had  spent 
a  large  part  of  the  night  in  searching.  Andre  knew 
nothing  of  the  story  of  Larle  Pichaud,  or  else  he  might 
have  conducted  himself  differently  during  the  scenes  of 
the  last  evening.  He  was  coming  down  to  see  if  the 
fires  in  his  kiln  were  going,  and  then  he  was  pre- 
pared to  resume  the  search  for  Pierrette.  Suddenly  he 
saw  the  fresh  footprints  leading  toward  the  old  kiln,  and 
with  an  ominous  sinking  at  his  heart,  he  followed  them 
down  to  the  long-used  door.  With  shaking  hands  he 
pulled  at  the  old  timbers,  and  in  a  moment  the  white  light 
was  shining  upon  the  prostrate  form  of  Pierrette. 

With  a  groan  of  horror  he  dropped  upon  his  knees 
beside  her.  He  had  heard  the  story  of  the  chilled  work- 
man's death,  if  he  had  not  heard  the  scandal  regard- 
ing Larle  Pichaud.  The  place  was  full  of  gases  from 
the  burning  charcoal.  In  a  wild  hope  that  the  fresh 
air  might  revive  her,  he  lifted  her  and  bore  her  out  into 
the  sunshine.  He  chafed  her  hands  and  bathed  her  face 
with  water  from  a  spring  close  by,  but  when  she  still 
gave  no  sign  of  life,  he  threw  himself  down  in  an  agony 
of  despair,  and  grovelled  among  the  dried  leaves  that  were 
heaped  about  her. 

"Oh,  Pierrette!"  he  cried,  bending  above  her  again, 


72  White   Butterflies. 

in  a  last  vain  hope  of  making  her  hear  him;  "don't  you 
see  how  it  was?  It  was  nothing — nothing!  I  owed  Delia 
Redmond  some  money  for  ten  weeks'  board.  I  spent  the 
money  in  a  lottery,  and  I  lost  it  all.  Wake  up!  It  will  be  all 
right,  Pierrette — I  am  earning  so  much  now!  I  was 
ashamed  to  have  you  know  that  I  had  been  so  thriftless! 
I  would  not  have  had  your  father  know  it  for  any- 
thing. I  should  have  been  afraid  he  would  not  have 
let  me  have  you.  They  said  she  liked  me,  Pierrette, 
but  I  never  liked  her.  I  never  kissed  her,  mignonne! 
It  was  as  I  said — I  never  loved  any  one  but  you!  Oh, 
wake  up,  wake  up!" 

But  all  his  endearments  were  powerless  to  arouse 
her,  and,  still  murmuring  fond,  formless  words  into  her 
deaf  ears,  he  struggled  up  to  her  father's  house,  carrying 
her  in  his  arms.  The  doctor  was  summoned  from  Sher- 
bury  at  once,  but  Pierrette  never  breathed  again. 
*  *  *  * 

From  that  day  Andre  Reboul  was  seen  no  more 
among  the  charcoal  burners.  Whither  he  went  was 
never  known,  but,  though  many  years  have  passed  since 
then,  on  the  top  of  Sherbury  Mountain  the  smoke  still  as- 
cends to  the  sky  from  the  kilns  of  Smoke  City.  Dropped 
in  among  them  is  a  lovely  garden — as  though  a  star  had 
fallen  from  heaven  into  its  rough  streets.  It  is  tended 
by  a  bent  little  old  Frenchman  and  his  wrinkled  wife. 
If  you  pause  to  praise  it,  the  tears  will  gather  in  their 
eyes  and  they  will  say,  "Oh,  you  should  have  seen  it 
when  our  daughter — our  own  Pierrette! — took  care  of  it. 
She  was  strong  as  a  man,  and  so  beautiful!  Every  one 
turned  to  look  at  her  when  she  went  by!  The  flowers 
would  bloom  if  she  but  told  them.  to.  Alas !  our  garden 
will  never  look  the  same  again.  You  have  heard  the 


The   Charcoal   Burners.          73 

story,  monsieur?  No?  Ah!  It  will  break  your  heart.  You 
would  like  to  hear  it?" 

And  you  will  forget  the  smoke  and  the  shouts  of  the 
charcoal  burners  in  listening  to  the  broken  words  of  the 
old  couple  as  they  tell  you  of  the  tragedy  of  their 
sad  and  simple  lives. 


Cupid  and  Minerva. 

A  TALE  WHICH  ILLUSTRATES  THE  EMPTI- 
NESS OF  THE  OLD  LINES: 

"The  safest  shield  against  the  darts 
Of  Cupid,  is  Minerva's  Thimble." 

UTT  is  a  most  gratifying  letter,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Michael 

j_  Penrose,  warmly. 

"It  is  just  splendid!"  cried  his  young  and  pretty 
sister  Amy.  "I  am  quite  in  love  with  that  Mr.  Men- 
ninger." 

"You  in  love  with  him!"  rejoined  her  brother,  in  play- 
ful disdain.  "Why,  puss,  he  is  the  very  cleverest  and 
most  distinguished  literary  critic  in  New  York.  My 
impression  is  that  he  is  old  and  gray  and  very  rheu- 
matic. At  any  rate,  he  wouldn't  look  at  a  dear  little 
goose  like  you." 

"I  don't  know  why,"  pouted  Miss  Amy.  "If  he  can 
praise  my  brother's  books  so  highly,  he  mightn't  scorn 
me.  I  am  thought  to  resemble  my  brother — and  maybe 
I  know  more  than  some  people  think  I  do." 

Mr.  Michael  Penrose  murmured  some  reassuring 
words  to  his  sister  and  kissed  her  tenderly.  Then  he 
proceeded  to  read  the  letter  over  again,  Miss  Amy  peer- 
ing at  it  from  behind  him. 

"You  needn't  tell  me,"  she  insisted,  "that  anybody 
with  the  rheumatism  wrote  that." 

The  hand   in   which  the   "gratifying  letter"   was   in- 
dited was,  indeed,  a  bold  and  handsome  one. 
74 


Cupid   and   Minerva.  75 

"I  send  you  herewith,"  it  ran,  "a  copy  of  the  current 
issue  of  'The  Age  of  Intellect/  containing  my  review  of 
your  masterly  work  upon  z\nemophilous  Monocotyle- 
dons. Three  years  ago  I  had  the  honor  to  commend 
highly  your  first  production  (as  you  stated  in  your 
preface)  upon  Entomostraca  and  Larvae — evidently  the 
result  of  years  of  study.  I  have  read  since  then  with 
great  pleasure  every  article  from  your  pen  which  has 
come  under  my  notice.  It  is  my  hope,  as  it  is  that  of 
every  lover  of  science  in  America,  that  you  may  long  be 
spared  to  make  the  profound  researches  of  which  your 
works  bear  evidence. 

"I  am,  sir,  with  the  deepest  respect, 
"Yours  faithfully, 

"Laurence  Menninger." 

"I  wonder  if  he  is  German,"  suggested  little  Miss  Amy. 

"I  have  asked  ever  so  many  people  about  him,"  re- 
sponded her  brother,  "but  nobody  seems  to  know  him 
personally.  He  has  written  the  scientific  reviews  four 
or  five  years  for  the  'Age'  now,  and  has  made  them  the 
most  important  part  of  the  magazine.  It  is  said  that  he  is 
averse  to  society — a  perfect  recluse — and  never  goes  to 
the  office.  Probably  he  is  old  and  rich — dabbling  in 
scientific  experiments  all  the  time.  I  am  thinking  that 
he  might  possibly  help  me  to  get  a  place  as  an  in- 
structor in  some  sort  of  a  scientific  institution.  I  would 
like  such  work  ever  so  much  better  than  reading  weak 
MSS.  for  'The  Brain  of  the  West.'  Oh,  if  I  could  only 
give  all  my  time  to  original  study!" 

"It  is  a  shame  that  you  can't!"  declared  little  Miss 
Amy,  severely,  as  she  stroked  the  bowed  head  of  her 
gifted  brother.  "There  ought  to  be  a  fund  for  geniuses  like 


76  White    Butterflies. 

you,  Mike,  dear,  so  that  you  could  compose  wonderful 
deep  books  all  the  time,  and  not  bother  to  earn  money." 

"Oh,  you  precious  little  goose!"  laughed  her  brother, 
regaining  his  courage  under  her  adoring  sympathy;  and 
then  he  rose  and  went  up  to  his  own  room. 

It  was  a  long  apartment,  with  a  curtained  alcove  at 
one  *end,  where  he  slept  and  dressed.  At  the  other 
end  were  herbariums,  cases  of  defunct  bugs  mounted 
on  long,  slender  insect  pins,  horrid  snakes  in  alcohol 
jars,  perches  covered  with  stuffed  birds,  minerals,  vases 
of  dried  grasses  and  similar  memorabilia,  until  one  could 
scarcely  make  one's  way  around.  The  young  man  him- 
self, thirty-two  or  three  years  old,  robust,  "well-looking," 
as  the  English  say,  and  full  of  zest  and  energy,  seemed 
out  of  place  among  these  dusty  treasures. 

He  took  up  a  freshly  prepared  case  of  stuffed  birds 
and  looked  at  them  critically. 

"I  believe  I'll  send  these  to  Mr.  Laurence  Menninger," 
he  mused.  "They  have  considerable  value,  and  he  has 
been  so  awfully  good  to  me  that  I  wish  I  could  do  some- 
thing for  him.  I  fancy  the  old  fellow  would  appreciate 
them." 

There  was  no  address  upon  Mr.  Laurence  Mennin- 
ger's  note  beyond  the  letter  head  of  "The  Age  of  In- 
tellect." Mr.  Michael  Penrose  accordingly  wrote  and 
asked  him  where  he  should  send  a  package  for  him,  par- 
tially defining  its  nature. 

"I  hesitate  about  giving  my  address,"  began  the  letter 
which  the  young  author  received  in  reply,  "but  your 
kind  desire  to  send  me  a  valuable  gift,  of  the  fragile 
nature  which  you  suggest,  is  too  warmly  expressed  to 
allow  me  to  decline,  especially  as  you  reside  in  the  Far 


Cupid   and   Minerva.  77 

West.  I  beg  you,  however,  as  for  special  reasons  I  shut 
myself  away  from  general  society,  to  regard  the  number 
which  I  send  you  as  given  in  strict  confidence.  I  thank 
you  most  sincerely  for  the  favor  which  you  intend  to 
do  me. 

"Faithfully   yours, 

"Laurence  Menninger. 
"27  Hamilton  Square,   New  York." 

The  birds  reached  their  destination  in  safety,  and 
brought  a  brief  but  delightful  acknowledgment  from  the 
great  reviewer.  Several  of  the  specimens  were  quite  new 
to  him.  Mr.  Michael  Penrose  had  captured  them  during 
a  trip  which  he  had  taken  to  Mexico,  in  order  to  prepare 
a  series  of  articles  on  that  region  for  "The  Brain  of  the 
West." 

A  few  months  after  this  occurrence,  Mr.  Michael  Pen- 
rose  came  home  one  day  with  an  excited  look  upon  his 
face. 

"Amy,  dear,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  calmly.  "I  have 
come  to  an  important  crisis  in  my  studies  for  my  new 
book  on  'The  Bats  and  Seals  of  the  Oceanic  Islands,' 
and  have  got  leave  of  absence  from  the  office  for  three 
weeks.  I  feel  as  though  I  must  go  to  New  York  for 
awhile,  and  get  into  that  Genobel  Collection.  It  isn't 
large,  you  know,  but  it  is  choice  and  just  what  I  need. 
They  say  it  is  almost  impossible  to  get  into  it,  but  I 
shall  bring  all  the  influence  I  can  to  bear  in  the  matter, 
my  publishers  may  be  able  to  help,  and  there's  that  old 
Mr.  Menninger.  He  might  manage  it,  if  the  others 
couldn't." 

"And  now  I  shall  know  just  how  he  looks!"  exclaimed 
sentimental  little  Miss  Amy.  "I  imagine  him,  dear,  as 


78  \Vhite   Butterflies. 

just  forty-five — that's  such  a  sweet  age  for  a  man,  you 
know — and  with  dark,  flashing  eyes,  and  a  perfectly 
awful  manner — like  a  king,  you  know — and  a  fierce  mus- 
tache. As  for  the  snuffy,  rheumatic  old  duffer  you  fancy 
him — I  don't  take  any  stock  in  him  at  all." 

"Well,  I  may  not  succeed  in  getting  into  his  presence," 
laughed  her  brother,  as  he  began  to  make  preparations 
for  his  journey,  "but  if  I  ever  do,  I'll  photograph  him 
for  you  just  as  I  find  him." 

In  New  York,  Mr.  Michael  Penrose  paused  at  his 
hotel  only  long  enough  to  perform  a  hurried  toilet  be- 
fore making  his  first  attempt  to  enter  the  wonderful  col- 
lection, on  which  he  felt  the  success  of  his  new  book 
so  greatly  to  depend.  He  found  that  his  publishers  and 
the  eccentric  owner  of  the  museum  were  at  swords'  points 
over  some  book  of  his  which  they  had  refused  to  bring 
out.  There  seemed  nothing  left  for  him  but  to  throw 
himself  upon  the  good  offices  of  Mr.  Laurence  Mennin- 
ger,  which  he  accordingly  proceeded  to  do. 

The  house  proved  to  be  a  grand  mansion  on  a  quiet, 
old-fashioned,  open  square.  Half-a-dozen  of  the  same 
stately  sort  of  residences  stood  near  it — all  that  were  left 
in  the  down-town  whirlpool  when  the  world  of  fashion 
had  taken  its  flight  twenty  years  before  toward  the  Park. 

"I  know  I'm  a  wretch  to  come,  after  what  he  wrote," 
guiltily  mused  the  young  man,  as  he  mounted  the  queer, 
old  marble  steps,  "but  when  he  finds  out  my  errand, 
I  somehow  feel  as  though  he  would  forgive  me." 

He  rang  the  bell,  and,  card  in  hand,  awaited  the  open- 
ing of  the  door. 

Suddenly  a  carriage  drew  up  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
simultaneously  the  door  in  front  of  him  opened,  emitting 
a  tall  young  woman  with  such  force  and  rapidity  that 


Cupid  and  Minerva.  79 

she  almost  dislodged  the  muscular  assistant  editor  of 
"The  Brain  of  the  West" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  began,  drawing  herself  up 
haughtily,  just  in  time  to  preserve  both  their  lives.  "I 
was  hastening  to  meet  my  friends  in  the  carriage,  and  I 
did  not  know  that  any  one  was  here.  Did  you  wish  to 
see  my  uncle?" 

"Just  my  conception  of  him,  precisely,"  flashed  over 
Mr.  Michael  Penrose's  mind.  "An  elderly  uncle — the 
term  just  fits  him." 

The  young  woman  was  shapely  as  well  as  tall,  and  her 
head  was  fine  and  finely  set  upon  a  pair  of  noble  shoul- 
ders. The  assistant  editor  of  "The  Brain  of  the  West" 
thought  that  he  had  never  seen  a  more  interesting  speci- 
men of  womanhood,  as  this  rather  stern  young  person 
stood  before  him,  a  slight  color  tinging  her  grave,  hand- 
some face.  She  glanced  beyond  him  toward  her  friends 
who  were  alighting  from  the  carriage,  though  she  politely 
awaited  his  reply  to  her  question. 

He  simply  handed  her  his  card,  stammering — for  he 
had  not  retained  his  self-possession  as  well  as  she  had, 
"I  came — to  see — if  I  might — Mr.  Laurence  Menninger." 

"Mr.  Penrose,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  not  calculated  to 
displease  her  visitor.  "I  have  heard  of  you,  but  I  cannot 
say  whether  Mr.  Menninger  will  see  you  or  not.  He 
does  not  often  see  people,  but  he  might  consent  to  re- 
ceive you.  Will  you  wait  a  few  moments?" 

"Wait  a  few  moments!"  He  only  wished  that  she  had 
asked  him  to  do  something  long  and  difficult,  such  was 
the  delicate  flattery  of  the  deference  which  this  enchant- 
ing young  woman  had  infused  into  her  manner  toward 
him.  Was  it  possible  that  this  radiant  being  had  read 
his  stupid  books — or  was  it  only  because  she  had  heard 


so  White   Butterflies. 

her  uncle  speak  well  of  him  that  she  seemed  disposed 
so  favorably  toward  him? 

Mr.  Michael  Penrose  had  never  cared  for  society  and 
knew  little  about  it.  Women  he  had  gauged,  therefore, 
as  all  such  men  do,  by  those  of  his  own  family — his 
mother,  a  calm,  busy,  practical  housekeeper,  with  de- 
cided views  concerning  woman's  sphere;  and  his  pretty 
little  sister — bright,  superficial  and  inconsequent.  This 
brilliant-faced,  perfectly  dressed  New  York  woman,  who 
might  have  been  either  twenty  or  thirty,  so  fresh,  yet 
sedate,  was  her  beauty,  gave  him  the  impression  of  a  new 
and  intensely  interesting  species.  "No  wonder,"  he 
mused,  "that  old  Mr.  Menninger  does  not  need  any  other 
society,  with  such  a  charming  niece  in  the  house.  How 
lucky  that  I  happened  to  encounter  her!  It  might  have 
chanced,  I  suppose,  that  I  might  have  been  here  a  dozen 
times  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things  without  once  see- 
ing her." 

Presently  the  young  woman  herself  came  back  to  him. 
Her  visitors  had  gone,  and  all  traces  had  disappeared  of 
the  slight  embarrassment  which  she  had  shown  after  her 
providential  escape  from  a  violent  assault  upon  our  peace- 
able young  scientist. 

"I  neglected  to  state  to  you  before,  Mr.  Penrose,"  she 
began,  pleasantly,  "that  I  am  Miss  Helen  Laurence.  Now 
please  tell  me  what  was  your  errand  with  Mr.  Menninger. 
I  am  sure  that  he  would  not  object,  for  I  transact  nearly 
all  his  business  for  him." 

"Your  uncle  is  not  well,  then?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  that  he  is  a  great  sufferer  from  the 
gout." 

"Ah!"  thought  her  visitor.  "Gout  and  rheumatism  are 
not  so  very  dissimilar.  I  am  a  fair  prophet,  after  all." 


Cupid   and   Minerva.  si 

Then  aloud  he  replied  to  her  question,  and  proceeded 
to  state  his  case  with  as  much  grace  as  he  could  muster. 

When  he  concluded,  Miss  Laurence  gave  him  a  re- 
assuring smile.  "I  am  happy  to  tell  you,"  she  said, 
"that  we  know  the  Genobels  very  well,  and  are  on  the 
best  of  terms  with  them.  If  this  is  the  urgent  cause  of 
your  wish  to  see  my  uncle  to-day,  you  might  as  well 
postpone  it,  for  he  is  particularly  unwell  just  now,  and 
if  you  will  accept  of  my  poor  services,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  go  with  you  at  once  to  examine  the  Collection.  I  am 
an  indifferent  scholar  beside  my  learned  uncle" — she 
smiled  deprecatingly,  and  always  with  that  subtle  defer- 
ence so  flattering  to  her  hearer — "but  I  am  still  somewhat 
familiar  with  scientific  matters.  I  have  read  your  books, 
and  I  know  how  highly  my  uncle  regards  them." 

Ecstasy!  To  be  actually  within  reach  of  the  Genobel 
Collection,  and  to  visit  it  in  company  with  this  lovely 
creature — who  had  read  his  books!  It  was  too  much! 

He  had  supposed  that  a  woman  acquainted  with  science 
must  be  a  sort  of  monstrosity,  hut  here  was  one,  blonde, 
supple,  elegant,  beautiful. 

Under  the  circumstances,  he  could  not  help  distrust- 
ing somewhat  the  accuracy  of  her  knowledge,  until  they 
were  fairly  within  the  walls  of  the  famous  collector,  when 
it  was  impossible  not  to  gather,  during  the  hour  which 
they  spent  there,  that  Miss  Helen  Laurence,  however 
modestly  she  might  value  herself,  was  no  sciolist,  but 
an  honest  and  thorough  gleaner  in  his  favorite  fields.  He 
reflected  again  what  a  companion  she  must  be  for  that 
gouty  old  uncle  of  hers,  with  his  elevated  tastes,  but  most 
probably  irritable  temper.  Mr.  Michael  Penrose  could 
readily  imagine  what  an  angel  she  was  to  him. 

There  was  not  time  to  examine  half  of  the  things  he 


82  White   Butterflies. 

wanted  to  see  that  afternoon,  so  the  next  day  he  went 
again — still  under  the  guidance  of  Miss  Helen  Laurence. 
She  was  allowed  by  the  ugly,  suspicious  Herr  Genobel, 
who  dogged  their  steps  everywhere,  to  unlock  drawers 
and  cabinets  as  she  chose,  and  to  handle  everything  at 
pleasure. 

After  this  second  visit  he  was  invited  to  stay  to  lunch- 
eon with  Miss  Laurence,  where  he  met  her  brother,  who, 
though  not  so  accomplished  a  naturalist  as  his  sister, 
and  also  a  rather  taciturn  and  plain-looking  young  man, 
was  still  a  not  unacceptable  addition  to  their  party. 

As  there  was  going  to  be  a  lecture  on  the  following 
evening  by  a  friend  of  Mr.  Penrose,  upon  the  "Modern 
Cromlech  Builders,"  and  in  a  hall  not  far  away,  he  invited 
Miss  Laurence  and  her  brother  to  accompany  him 
thither.  They  accepted  the  invitation. 

A  day  later  the  brother  called  to  drive  him  to  the  home 
of  a  queer  old  electrician,  who,  Miss  Laurence  had  re- 
ported, had  read  Mr.  Penrose's  books,  and  was  anxious 
to  meet  him.  Of  course  Miss  Laurence  was  to  go  too. 

Ten  days  of  Mr.  Michael  Penrose's  vacation  passed 
away,  and  upon  looking  back  over  them  he  found  that  he 
had  every  day  seen  Miss  Helen  Laurence,  yet  had  never 
once  been  able  to  gain  access  to  the  chamber  of  her 
eccentric  uncle. 

"Still,  they  have  been  the  happiest  days  of  my  life," 
he  murmured  hotly  to  himself  as,  after  an  evening  at  a 
delightful  reception  to  which  he  had  been  carried  by  Miss 
Laurence  and  her  brother,  he  returned  to  his  hotel. 
"Every  day  shows  me  more  and  more  how  noble  and 
sweet  and  wise  she  is!" 

"A  thousand  fantasies 
Begin  to  throng" 


Cupid  and   Minerva.  83 

into  his  mind  as  he  thinks  of  her  and  of  the  future.  He 
has  always  looked  forward  in  a  vague  way  to  having 
some  time  a  home  of  his  own,  which,  of  course,  will  be 
full  of  his  beloved  seaweeds  and  corals,  strange  bugs  on 
insect  pins,  birds  on  perches,  gneiss  and  asbestos,  but 
to-night  over  and  under  and  through  them  all — let  no 
scientist  dare  to  dispute  the  fact! — shines  the  apotheosis 
of  Miss  Helen  Laurence,  dignified  and  learned,  yet  fair- 
browed  and  beautiful.  And  does  his  image  haunt  her 
also?  He  can  scarcely  dare  to  hope  so,  but  he  cannot 
help  knowing  that  during  his  stay  in  New  York,  Miss 
Laurence,  once  or  twice  in  the  face  of  her  brother's  re- 
monstrances, has  put  off  engagement  after  engagement 
in  order  that  she  might  show  him  some  curio,  the  sight 
of  which  he  has  long  coveted,  or  attend  some  lecture 
with  him.  And  has  she  not  declared  within  his  hearing — 
he  blushes  to  think  of  it — that  he  is  bound  to  become 
one  of  the  foremost  scientific  authorities  of  America? 
She  has  been  shocked  to  find  that  his  studies  are  prose- 
cuted during  such  hours  as  he  can  snatch  from  his  exact- 
ing duties  as  assistant  editor  of  "The  Brain  of  the  West." 
She  had  supposed  that  all  his  days  and  his  nights  were 
given  to  science.  She  had  also  confided  to  him,  now  that 
they  are  so  well  acquainted — indeed,  it  seems  as  though 
they  had  always  known  one  another — that  she  had  pic- 
tured him  as  a  thin,  elderly  gentleman,  with  spectacles, 
of  course,  and  with  a  vast  brow,  cavernous  eyes,  and  a 
soul  entirely  above  the  delights  of  lunching  and  gadding 
about,  even  for  scientific  purposes,  with  a  young  person 
like  herself. 

When  this  disclosure  was  made  to  Mr.  Michael  Pen- 
rose,  he  had,  as  was  natural,  laughed  immoderately,  and 
had  responded,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  a  beating-  heart, 


84  White   Butterflies. 

that  an  eremite  might  well  renounce  his  vows  for  such 
a  privilege;  upon  which,  Miss  Laurence,  though  neces- 
sarily accustomed  to  compliments,  had  blushed  a  brilliant 
carmine,  and  had  asked  him  abruptly  to  restate  his  views 
regarding  the  ears  of  saurians,  in  which  she  was  pro- 
foundly interested. 

The  final  evening  of  his  leave  of  absence  had  come,  and 
he  strayed  over  to  the  handsome  old  house  in  Hamilton 
Square  to  say  his  good-byes.  The  omnipresent  brother 
for  once  was  away,  but  he  would  certainly  be  in  about 
nine,  Miss  Laurence  assured  him;  and  he  promised,  most 
willingly,  as  may  be  surmised,  to  wait. 

They  sat  down  together  in  the  pretty  reception  room 
where  she  had  introduced  herself  to  him,  and  then  began 
to  talk  enthusiastically,  as  they  always  did.  They  had, 
somehow,  an  infinity  of  interests  in  common,  and  the 
young  man  had  never  found  anybody's  conversation  so 
suggestive  and  stimulating  as  hers. 

They  had  been  discussing  a  wonderful  kind  of  dragon 
fly,  of  which  they  had  recently  seen  the  only  specimen 
in  this  country,  when  the  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  half- 
past  eight.  Its  silvery  chime  seemed  to  send  a  cold  chill 
to  Mr.  Michael  Penrose's  heart,  and  to  dry  up  the  foun- 
tain of  his  words.  Miss  Laurence,  after  several  ineffect- 
ual attempts  to  lead  him  to  talk  on  as  before,  rallied  him 
upon  his  abstraction. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "your  thoughts  are  not  with  me;  they 
are  far  over  the  sea,  following  that  dragon  fly  to  his 
native  haunts,  and  extracting  from  the  formation  of  his 
wings  some  curious  theories  for  your  new  book.  Indeed, 
I  will  not  urge  you  to  wait.  I  will  convey  your  good- 
byes to  my  brother." 

"Oh — I —   you    do   not   understand,"    protested    the 


Cupid  and  Minerva.  85 

young  man,  in  confusion.  "I — I  prefer  to  wait.  I  was 
only  thinking "  He  paused. 

"It  is  of  no  consequence — none  at  all,"  she  protested, 
in  her  turn,  unheeding  that  she  was  hardly  polite  in  her 
haste. 

"But,  oh,  it  is  of  consequence!"  he  declared,  impul- 
sively, a  sudden  wave  of  feeling  passing  over  him.  "I 
was  thinking — I  was  thinking  that  I — I  might  never  see 
you  again." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will!"  she  laughed,  constrainedly.  "We 
are  all  so  well — and  you  will  soon  come  to  New  York 
again." 

Her  cool  words  served  to  partially  restore  him  to  him- 
self. 

"I — I  have  been  so  sorry  not  to  see  Mr.  Menninger," 
he  went  on,  saying  over  again  what  he  had  already  said 
sufficiently  often.  "I  had  so  much  to  say  to  him,  and 
now  I  have  even  more.  Do  you  not  suppose  that  he  will 
ever  see  me?" 

A  little  shadow  fell  over  her  face  as  she  looked  steadily 
into  his  eyes  without  answering  him.  "Mr.  Penrose," 
she  began,  at  last,  with  some  agitation  in  her  manner, 
"I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you;  but  first  promise 
that  you  will  forgive  me." 

He  bent  forward  a  little  to  hear  what  she  had  to  say, 
eagerly  promising  what  she  desired.  It  was  a  critical 
moment. 

"Mr.  Penrose,"  she  began  again,  "I  have  deceived  you. 
But  it  seemed  to  happen  so  that  I  could  deceive  you  with- 
out really  meaning  to,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  tell  you 
the  truth.  I  thought  you  would  be  disappointed.  My 
uncle,  though  he  has  always  been  a  student,  has  never 
written  anything  beyond  his  ordinary  correspondence. 


S6  White   Butterflies. 

His  mind  is  now  very  feeble,  and  may  fail  entirely  any 
day.  His  name  is  James  William  Menninger.  There  is 
no  Laurence  Menninger;  or — rather — I — am  Laurence 
Menninger." 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  face  in  genuine  shame  and 
distress.  It  was  the  final  touch  to  upset  his  balance  en- 
tirely. He  sprang  to  her  side,  tore  her  hands  from  her 
face  and  kissed  them  passionately. 

"Oh,  how  good  you  have  been  to  me!"  he  whispered 
to  her — "you,  rich,  beautiful,  accomplished — to  me,  a 
poor,  obscure  editor " 

And  then  she  hushed  his  self-depreciations  with  such 
decided  yet  agreeable  words  that  for  the  next  fifteen  min- 
utes saurians  and  trilobites,  microbes  and  bacteria,  poly- 
poid excrescences  and  musical  orthoptera,  were  for- 
gotten. 

It  was  but  a  few  days  after  this  that  the  mysterious 
uncle  died,  and  a  few  months  later  Miss  Helen  Laurence 
went  to  visit  Mr.  Michael  Penrose's  mother  by  special 
invitation.  This  brought  the  rumor  into  circulation  that 
Mr.  Michael  Penrose  was  about  to  be  married,  and  as 
nobody  took  the  trouble  to  dispute  the  rumor,  it  was  ac- 
cepted everywhere  as  true. 

But  nobody,  not  even  the  inquisitive  Miss  Amy,  knew 
of  the  identity  of  Laurence  Menninger  with  her  prospec- 
tive sister-in-law,  until  she  came  on,  about  a  year  after 
Mr.  Michael  Penrose's  introduction  to  the  distinguished 
critic,  to  attend  her  brother's  wedding  in  New  York, 
and  to  bid  him  good-bye  as  he  sailed  with  his  bride  for 
a  distant  shore,  where  he  had  been  appointed  to  conduct 
some  great  archaeological  explorations.  "The  Brain  of 
the  West"  would  have  to  work  out  its  own  destiny  hence- 
forward without  the  aid  of  Mr.  Michael  Penrose. 


Cupid  and   Minerva.  87 

The  moment  of  Miss  Amy's  entrance  into  the  hall  of 
the  old  house  on  Hamilton  Square  was  chosen  as  the 
proper  time  for  initiating  her  into  the  great  secret. 

"I  engaged,"  said  her  brother,  leading  forward  his 
promised  bride,  "to  introduce  you  to-night  to  Mr.  Lau- 
rence Menninger,  whose  kindness  to  me  has  so  much  en- 
deared him  to  you.  Here  he  is.  Behold  his  'dark,  flash- 
ing eyes/  his  'perfectly  awful  manner/  his  'fierce  mus- 
tache'; and  does  he  not  bear  his  'forty-five  years'  with 
great  grace?" 

"At  any  rate,"  pouted  Miss  Amy,  relieving  herself  of 
her  surprise  by  enthusiastically  embracing  her  prospec- 
tive relative,  while  the  taciturn  brother  gazed  admiringly 
upon  her  from  a  distance — "at  any  rate,  I  didn't  say  that 
she  was  'old  and  gray  and  very  rheumatic!'  " 

But  the  beautiful  bride  seemed  to  be  only  flattered  by 
the  bridegroom's  preconceived  notions  of  her  as  thus  de- 
scribed, and  they  all  fell  to  talking  merrily — apropos  of 
a  fine  flower  show  just  then  in  progress  in  New  York — 
of  the  segregation  of  the  homogeneous  fluid  in  the  cells 
of  drosera,  which  greatly  affected,  so  the  bride  remarked, 
to  the  deep  interest  of  the  bridegroom,  the  nervous  mat- 
ter in  the  plant,  and  the  continuity  of  protoplasm. 


The  Case  of  Parson  Hewlett. 

A  TRUE  STORY. 

THE  impression  which  Parson  Hewlett  first  made 
upon  his  Birchmont  parish  was  very  favorable. 
It  is  said  that  all  of  the  people,  including  Deacon 
Aaron  Rice,  a  famous  judge  of  pulpit  eloquence,  thought 
him  "a  most  uncommon  preacher";  Goodsir  Giles,  the 
chief  stickler  for  orthodoxy  in  the  parish,  declared  the 
new  parson  to  be  "as  sound  on  the  doctrines  as  Jeremy 
Taylor  himself" ;  and  he  offered  a  prayer  long  enough  to 
satisfy  even  Dr.  Hartshorn,  who  is  said  to  have  con- 
sidered it  a  piece  of  irreverence  in  a  clergyman  to  con- 
sume less  than  an  hour  in  making  his  "long  prayer"; 
while  the  women  agreed  in  pronouncing  him  "the  come- 
liest  minister  in  all  the  country  round."  Even  old  Mis- 
tress Betty  Weddell,  who  lived  alone  in  her  little  cottage 
among  the  pines  on  Birchmont  Hill,  said  that  the  new 
parson  "knew  how  to  speak  to  a  body." 

Mistress  Betty  has  come  down  in  history  as  a  very  cross 
old  woman.  It  turned  out  that  the  new  parson  did  not 
much  care  to  speak  to  her,  well  as  he  knew  how,  when  he 
became  better  acquainted  with  her. 

These  remarks  were  all  made  upon  the  tenth  day  of  Aug- 
ust, 1767.  The  new  pastor's  full  name  was  the  Reverend 
Jonathan  Hewlett,  late  of  the  college  at  New  Haven,  and 
later  of  Walpole,  N.  H.  He  wore  "a  great  white  wig  and 
a  cocked-up  hat,  and  made  a  dignified  appearance."  One 
of  his  ministerial  friends  said  of  him  to  another:  "He 
88 


The  Case  of  Parson  Hewlett.     89 

could  do  more  execution  with  one  nod  of  his  wig  than  you 
or  I  could  in  talking  half  an  hour." 

Yes,  a  man  of  power  was' the  Reverend  Jonathan  Hew- 
lett, and  the  mark  which  he  left  upon  the  town  of  Birch- 
mont,  and,  indeed,  upon  the  whole  county,  has  remained 
to  this  day. 

The  story  of  his  calling  is  thus  told  in  the  old  town  rec- 
ords of  Birchmont:  "The  vote  was  put  whether  the  Town 
was  ready  to  make  choice  of  a  gentleman  to  settle  with 
them  at  present,  and  it  past  in  the  affirmative.  Then, 
according  to  the  advice  of  the  neighboring  ministers,  the 
Town  proceeded  to  Chuse  and  Call  the  Rev'd  Mr.  Jona- 
than Hewlett  to  the  work  of  the  ministry  among  us. 
Agreed  and  voted  to  give  the  said  Mr.  Jonathan  Hewlett, 
provided  he  Accepts  and  Settles  among  us,  one  hundred 
pounds  settlement;  to  be  paid  as  followes,  viz.,  sixty 
pounds  the  first  year  and  fourty  pounds  the  second  year. 
As  also  an  annual  salary,  to  begin  as  followes;  viz.,  fifty 
pounds  to  be  paid  the  first  year,  and  to  rise  two  pounds  a 
year  for  five  years,  and  there  to  remain,  and  likewise  to 
find  him  his  wood." 

Shortly  after  Parson  Hewlett's  coming  among  them, 
the  people  voted  to  make  a  new  meeting-house  for  him 
"forty-five  feet  long  and  thirty-five  feet  wide  and  twenty 
foot  post."  Later,  it  was  voted  that  when  sixty  families 
were  settled  in  the  town,  the  salary  should  "rise  one 
pound  upon  each  family  that  shall  be  added  above  sixty, 
till  it  comes  to  be  eighty  pounds  a  year,  and  there  to  re- 
main during  his  continuance  with  us  in  the  work  of  the 
ministry.  It  was  likewise  agreed  upon  and  voted  that  the 
selectmen  shall  lay  out  the  minister's  right  in  publick  land 
where  the  minister  shall  chuse."  Then  "a  commity  was 
appointed  to  provide  for  the  Rev'd  Jonathan  Hewlett's 


90  White   Butterflies. 

installation"  and  "to  build  him  a  house."  All  of  which 
looks  as  though  Dr.  Hartshorn  and  Deacon  Rice  and 
Goodsir  Giles  and  the  rest  had  meant  to  be  fair  and 
square,  and  even  generous  with  the  pastor  they  so  much 
admired,  when  they  "settled"  him;  still,  his  subsequent 
history  leads  us  to  believe  that  the  preparations  for  his 
reception  and  maintenance  were  very  closely  supervised 
by  the  thrifty  parson  himself.  He  certainly  found  the 
people  ready  and  willing  to  do  his  bidding,  however,  and 
if  his  life  had  but  been  in  accordance  with  his  prayers  and 
his  profession,  it  is  reasonable  to  believe  that  his  parish- 
ioners would  have  supported  and  loved  him  to  the  end. 
But,  like  many  another,  Parson  Hewlett  had  a  nature 
which  grace  failed  to  subdue,  and,  though  his  side  of  the 
story  has  not  come  down  to  us  so  fully  as  has  that  of  the 
town,  it  is  plain  to  see  that  he  showed  himself  very  soon  to 
be  "an  hard  man,  reaping  where  he  had  not  sowed,  and 
gathering  where  he  had  not  strown."  His  sound  and  doc- 
trinal sermons,  however,  his  grand  looks  and  courtly 
manners,  and,  above  all,  the  innate  respect  for  his  office 
which  was  a  part  of  provincial  human  nature  in  those 
days,  kept  Parson  Hewlett  in  good  and  regular  standing 
among  his  people  for  several  years.  Then  the  mutterings 
of  discontent  which  had  been  making  themselves  heard 
distantly  here  and  there  began  to  grow  louder.  Mistress 
Betty  Weddell  was  one  of  the  first  to  "speak  out." 

"What's  fair  words,"  scolded  the  poor  old  woman,  from 
whom  the  parson  had  wrenched  her  share  of  the  "min- 
ister-tax," at  his  own  convenience,  instead  of  hers, 
"What's  fair  words,  when  the  Evil  One  is  behind  them? 
Oh,  I  wish,"  tradition  says  that  she  confided  to  her  neigh- 
bors, "I  wish  that  Parson  Hewlett  would  go  by  my  woods 
some  dark  night  on  his  high-stepping  horse!  How  I 


The  Case  of  Parson  Hewlett.     91 

would  love  to  jump  out  of  the  bushes  and  'Boh!'  at  him!" 
But  poor  old  Mistress  Betty  never  had  the  chance  she 
coveted. 

Goodsir  Giles,  too,  had  hard  luck,  and  was  not  able  to 
pay  his  minister-tax  any  better  than  Mistress  Betty;  but 
this  did  not  deter  Parson  Hewlett  from  insistingupon  his 
rights  in  the  matter.  One  morning  he  came  around  to 
see  the  old  Goodsir,  and  urged  upon  him  with  prayer 
(very  likely  an  hour  long),  the  wickedness  of  putting  off 
the  payment  of  his  tax. 

"But  I  tell  you  I  can't  pay  a  penny  this  year,  parson," 
explained  Goodsir  Giles,  for  the  dozenth  time;  "I  said  so, 
and  I  mean  it.  My  wife  has  been  sick  this  twelvemonth, 
my  hogs  have  died,  my  horse  broke  his  neck  in  the  pas- 
ture, and  I  can't  even  pay  my  score  at  the  mill." 

"Tut,  tut!"  reproved  the  parson,  "I  can't  believe  that 
you  are  so  badly  off  as  all  that!  Come  now,  and  let  us  see 
what  you  have." 

Shrewdly  exploring  the  premises,  he  discovered  a  fine 
milch  cow,  which  he  proceeded  to  lead  off  for  himself, 
under  the  very  eyes  of  its  indignant  owner.  The  poor 
old  Goodsir  pleaded  that  this  cow  was  all  that  stood  be- 
tween his  family  and  starvation,  but  even  this  availed  him 
nothing. 

"Ha,  sirrah!"  scolded  the  pompous  parson,  "pay  your 
debts  before  you  lay  up  for  the  future.  Read  your  Bible, 
and  learn  from  that,  that  the  Lord  will  provide.  If  you 
are  needy,  call  upon  the  town." 

Goodsir  Giles  had  a  better  chance  than  Mistress  Betty 
to  avenge  himself  upon  the  insolent  parson.  One  day  in 
early  spring,  when  the  ice  was  still  pretty  firm  in  the 
Birchmont  River,  Parson  Hewlett  crossed  it  in  the  morn- 
ing to  attend  a  "Conference"  upon  the  other  side.  The 


92  White   Butterflies. 

sun  was  very  warm  at  noon,  and  upon  his  return  his 
sleigh  broke  through  the  ice  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
stream.  Goodsir  Giles,  whose  house  was  on  the  bank 
close  by,  heard  loud  cries  for  help,  and  hurried  out  to  see 
what  was  the  matter.  His  heart,  which  had  been  moved 
by  the  piteous  cries,  hardened  when  he  saw  who  was  in 
trouble. 

"Help,  help,  Goodsir  Giles,  for  God's  sake!"  roared  the 
haughty  parson,  now  humble  enough. 

But  the  Goodsir  was  ready  for  him.  He  made  a 
trumpet  of  his  two  hands  and  bawled  through  it:  "Keep 
up  your  courage,  parson!  The  Lord  will  provide!  Call 
upon  the  town!"  Then  he  went  back  to  his  house. 

It  was  a  long,  cold  half-hour,  tradition  tells  us,  before 
a  chance  passer-by  rescued  the  doughty  parson  from  his 
perilous  and  uncomfortable  position.  He  and  his  horse 
were  half  dead  from  fright  and  exposure,  but  naughty 
Goodsir  Giles  felt  no  compunctions.  , 

Parson  Hewlett  raised  a  large  family,  and,  though  he 
was  a  very  serious  man,  he  had  one  humorous  conun- 
drum which  he  always  asked  of  strangers  to  whom  he 
wished  to  make  himself  agreeable. 

"How  many  children  have  I?"  he  would  inquire  jocu- 
larly. "I  have  eleven  sons,  and  every  one  of  them  has  a 
sister." 

If  the  hearer,  after  scratching  his  head  for  a  while  over 
the  matter,  worked  out  at  last  that  there  were  twelve  chil- 
dren in  the  family,  the  parson  would  shake  his  hand  heart- 
ily and  regard  him  as  a  man  of  great  acumen. 

One  of  these  eleven  sons,  who  ventured  once  too  often 
to  remonstrate  with  his  father  upon  the  severities  which 
he  practised  upon  the  poor  in  collecting  his  salary,  was 
never  forgiven  by  the  stiff  old  man  for  his  presumption; 


The  Case  of  Parson  Hewlett.     93 

as  a  punishment  the  lad  was  apprenticed  to  a  blacksmith, 
and  a  blacksmith  he  remained  to  the  end  of  his  days, 
having  been  granted  far  fewer  privileges  than  fell  to  the 
lot  of  his  more  discreet  brothers. 

In  those  days,  the  clergy  all  liked  their  toddy,  and  there 
was  not  one  in  the  county  but  was  a  discriminating  judge 
of  rum  and  brandy ;  but,  in  spite  of  this  fact,  and  that  Par- 
son Hewlett  himself  liked  only  the  choicest  liquors,  his 
brethren  well  knew  that  the  prudent  old  fellow  would 
serve  them  the  cheapest  brands  when  they  gathered  with 
him  for  conference.  Perhaps  the  parson  was  afraid  they 
would  take  more  than  was  good  for  them,  if  too  tempting 
an  article  was  supplied. 

In  spite  of  his  hardness  and  closeness,  however,  even 
this  severe  old  theologian  laughed  when  good  old  Deacon 
Hastings,  in  a  time  of  drought,  prayed  in  meeting,  in  all 
good  faith:  "O  Lord,  thou  knowest  how  much  we  stand 
in  need  of  rain!  We  pray  Thee  that  Thou  wouldst  send 
it  to  us.  We  ask  not  that  it  should  come  in  copious  con- 
fusion, O  Lord;  but  we  pray  that  Thou  wouldst  send  it  to 
us  in  a  gentle  sizzle-sozzle." 

And  he  laughed  again  when  the  same  old  man,  noted 
for  his  extraordinary  petitions,  prayed:  "Remember  also 
our  good  neighbors,  Brother  Crane  and  Brother  Felch,  O 
Lord, — both  of  'em  living  in  the  same  house,  and  both 
of  'em  living  with  their  second  wives, — singular  circum- 
stance, O  Lord!" 

The  Revolutionary  times  came  on.  Parson  Hewlett 
was  a  Tory  of  the  Tories,  and  tried  his  best  to  keep  his 
people  with  him;  but  the  tide  of  patriotism  grew  grad- 
ually higher  and  higher  in  the  town,  until  at  last  it 
culminated  in  an  outspoken  declaration  against  the  injus- 
tice of  Great  Britain.  As  this  declaration  marks  the  first 


94  White   Butterflies. 

general  and  public  outbreak  against  the  authority  of  Par- 
son Hewlett,  and  widened  more  than  anything  else  the 
breach  between  them,  it  is  reproduced  here  in  full.  It 
ran  as  follows : 

"At  a  meeting  of  the  freeholders  and  other  inhabitants  of  the 
town  of  Birchmont  on  Monday,  the  fourth  day  of  October,  1773. 
to  take  into  Consideration  the  Melancholly  state  of  the  province 
of  Massachusetts  Bay,  occasioned  by  the  unnatural  oppression 
of  the  parent  State  of  this  province,  after  seriously  debating  the 
matter  [they]  made  choice  of  a  committy  to  prepair  a  draft  of 
resolutions  for  the  Town  to  Come  into  and  then  adjourned  the 
meeting  to  Monday  the  25th  inst.  The  Committee  having  Met 
and  Considered  the  matter  do  report  that  the  Inhabitants  of 
this  Town  are  possessed  of  the  warmest  sentiments  of  Loyalty 
to  and  the  highest  respect  for  the  sacred  person,  Crown,  and 
dignity  of  our  Right  and  Lawful  Sovereign,  King  George  the 
Third  and  the  Illustrious  House  of  Hanover,  that  this  Town  are 
fair  from  once  harbering  a  thought  of  Disuniting  from  the 
parent  State.  But  with  the  greatest  Sorrow  and  Concern  would 
we  His  Majesties  Most  Dutiful  and  Loyall  subjects  the  Inhabi- 
tants of  this  Town  say  that  the  Humiliating  and  Violent  oppres- 
sive Mesurs  of  the  parent  State  fill  our  Loyall  minds  with  the 
most  fearful  apprehensions  of  the  Consequences;  That  the  Ilegall 
and  unconstitutional  strech  of  power  put  into  the  hands  of  the 
Courts  of  Admiralty  is  a  very  Great  Greevance  and  renders  pre- 
carious and  uncertain  the  lives  and  property  of  the  Honest  In- 
habitants of  this  province;  that  the  parlement  of  Great  Briton 
assuming  to  themselves  a  power  of  making  Laws  Binding  on  us 
in  all  cases  is  a  very  alarming  curcomstance  and  threatens  our 
ruin;  That  the  leavying  taxes  on  us  without  our  consent  either 
in  person  or  by  Reprisentative  and  establishing  a  board  of 
Comitions  in  the  province  to  Collect  the  same,  with  all  their 
expensive  attendants,  Importing  them  by  a  fleet  and  Army  to 
Aw  us  into  a  complyance  is  a  very  grate  greevance;  that  the 
taking  the  payment  of  our  governor  out  of  [our]  hands  is  a  very 
grate  greevance.  But  the  rendering  Independent  of  the  people 
end  altogether  Dependent  on  the  Crown  the  Judges  of  our  Supe- 


The  Case  of  Parson  Hewlett.     95 


rior  Courts  seems  calculated  to  Compleat  the  Cystim  of  our 
slavery  and  ruin;  That  the  inhabitants  of  this  town  hould 
sacred  our  excellent  Constitution,  so  dearly  purchased  by  our 
forefathers;  that  we  also  hould  Dear  our  possessions  so  Dearly 
purchased  by  ourselves,  where  to  settle  this  Town  and  Make  it 
more  advantgeous  to  his  Majesty  and  profitable  to  ourselves 
and  posterity  we  have  been  alarmed  by  the  Yells  of  Saviges 
about  our  ears,  been  shocked  with  seens  of  our  Dearest  Friends 
and  Nearest  relations  Butchered,  Scalped  and  Captivated  before 
our  Eyes,  we,  our  wives  and  children  forced  to  fly  to  garison 
for  safety.  Therefore  we  must  hold  the  man  in  the  greatest 
Scorn  and  Contempt  who  shall  Endeavior  to  Rob  us  either  of 
Liberty  or  property;  That  certian  Letters  signed  Thomas  Hutch- 
inson,  Andrew  Clive,  Charles  Paxton  &c.  which  letters  were 
layde  before  the  Honorable  house  of  Representatives  of  this 
province  in  their  last  session  were  wrote  and  sent  to  the  gentle- 
men to  whom  they  were  with  a  desire  to  overthrow  our  excel- 
lent Constitution  and  Consequently  Rob  us  of  our  Liberty  and 
Prosperity;  That  we  look  upon  it  as  a  Very  Grate  Frown  of 
Almighty  God  to  permit  a  man  to  govern  us  that  seems  so  much 
Bent  to  Ruin  the  people  he  is  set  to  protect  and  the  place  that 
gave  him  Berth  and  Education;  and  it  shall  be  our  Constant 
prayer  that  God  would  give  us  and  the  whole  people  of  this 
province  Repentance  for  all  our  sins  and  especially  those  that 
pulls  down  such  a  heavy  judgement  as  an  oppressive  Governor; 
that  He  would  Continue  our  invaluable  priviledges  to  us  and 
neaver  suffer  us  to  be  Robed  of  them  by  Crafty,  Designing 
men,  and  that  they  may  be  transmitted  down  to  the  Latest  pos- 
teraty. 

"The  above  Report  being  Repeatedly  Read  in  Town  meeting, 
it  was  unanimously  voted  in  the  affirmative,  and  ordered  that  it 
be  recorded  in  the  Town  Book,  and  that  a  true  copy  of  the  same 
be  transmitted  to  the  Comitee  of  Corispondence  of  the  town 
of  Boston."  x 


1  This  is  a  literal  copy  of  the  "Declaration  of  Rights,"  of  the 
town  called  in  this  story  "Birchmont,"  as  recorded  in  the  "Town 
Book," 


96  White  Butterflies. 

"And  a  fig  for  the  Tory  sentiments  of  the  Parson!"  was 
implied  in  every  line  of  this  fiery  statement  of  "Grate 
Greevances."  The  town  fathers  of  Birchmont  were  not 
infallible  spellers;  they  were  not  even  consistent  in  their 
orthography,  such  as  it  was,  but  they  knew  enough  to 
spell  "Liberty"  with  a  capital  letter,  and  they  would  no 
more  brook  the  petty  tyranny  of  Parson  Hewlett  than  the 
encroachments  of  "Grate  Briton." 

At  the  very  time  when  the  grasping  old  man  was  clam- 
oring at  the  loudest  for  his  "back  pay," — for  the  collection 
of  his  salary,  originally  much  too  large  for  the  then  young 
and  poor  town  to  offer,  had  been  hopelessly  delayed  by 
the  war, — at  this  time  imagine  his  wrath  when  he  learned 
of  the  following  correspondence,  now  carefully  preserved 
among  the  archives  of  Birchmont: 
To  the  Overseers  of  the  Poor  of  Boston: 


JULY  gth,  1774. 

SIRS, — The  Inhabitants  of  Birchmont  have  considered  the 
deplorable  condition  of  your  town,  and,  like  the  poor  widow, 
cast  in  their  mite.  They  committed  to  me  two  barrels  of  flour 
to  be  sent  to  you  for  the  relief  [of]  the  poor,  which  I  have  sent 
by  the  bearer,  desiring  you  would  receive  it  for  that  purpose,  and 
please  signify  that  you  have  received  it,  and  you  will  oblige, 
Your  friend  and  servant, 

AARON  RICE. 


Great  pleasure  was  expressed  throughout  the  poor  but 
generous  little  town  (excepting,  it  may  be  safely  asserted, 
in  the  home  of  the  Tory  parson),  when  it  was  "signified" 
as  follows,  that  the  flour  had  been  received, — 

BOSTON,  July  20,  1774. 

.SiR, — I  received  your  favor  of  the  gth  instant,  advising  that 
you  had  sent  two  barrels  of  flour  for  the  relief  of  such  poor 


The  Case  of  Parson  Hewlett.     97 

people  as  do  suffer  by  the  shutting  up  of  this  port,  which  flour 
I  have  received,  and  it  shall  be  appropriated  accordingly.  The 
distresses  of  this  Town  begin  to  come  on,  and  I  do  expect  them 
to  be  great,  but  we  are  not  intimidated,  nor  shall  we  give  up 
any  of  our  liberties,  although  we  are  surrounded  by  fleets  and 
armies.  Our  Committee  to  employ  the  Poor  are  not  together, 
of  which  I  am  one,  as  well  as  one  of  the  Overseers  of  the  Poor, 
so  do  in  the  name  of  both,  return  you  thanks  for  your  kind 
donation  and  am,  Gentlemen, 

Your  very  humble  servant, 

SAM  PARTRIDGE. 
To  Mr.  Aaron  Rice,  Birchmont. 

It  must  have  been  o'er  exasperating  to  the  Tory  parson 
that  his  town,  in  large  arrears  to  himself,  should  be  giving 
away  its  substance  to  "rebels," — whom  he  regarded  as 
much  worthier  of  halters  than  of  good  flour;  but  he  could 
not  help  himself. 

Finding  that  the  money  to  pay  him  could  not  possibly 
be  raised,  as  the  war  continued,  he  devised  a  method  of 
punishment  for  the  delinquents,  of  which  we  learn  from 
the  following  spirited  entry  in  the  Town  Book, — 

"Agreed  and  voted  that  whereas  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hewlett 
hath  Desired  the  Town  to  come  into  some  method  by 
which  he  may  have  his  salary  at  the  Time  it  becomes  due 
or  the  interest  till  it  is  paid:  as  for  any  methods  being 
come  into  other  than  is  provided,  [it  is]  impractable. 
As  for  his  having  Interest,  we  acknowledge  it  is  his  just 
rite.  But  it  is  an  unusual  thing  for  a  minister  to  have 
Interest  for  his  salary,  and  we  think  it  hard  that  Mr. 
Hewlett  should  ask  it  of  us,  especially  at  such  a  time  as 
this,  when  the  publick  burthens  are  so  great,  and  humbly 
beseech  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hewlett  to  consider  us  in  this 
Difficult  time,  not  only  with  regard  to  having  interest, 
but  to  make  some  further  abatement  in  his  salary,  for  we 
7 


98  White   Butterflies. 

judge  ourselves  unable  to  fulfill  our  contract  with  him 
without  bringing  ourselves  and  children  into  bondage." 

But  Parson  Hewlett  had  no  sympathy  with  the  war 
which  was  draining  the  resources  of  his  people,  and  he 
would  not  desist  from  his  persecutions.  He  even  insisted 
upon  having  everything  which  was  donated  towards  his 
salary,  such  as  beef,  butter,  wood,  etc.,  valued  upon  a 
specie  basis.  No  depreciated  continental  currency,  nor 
its  equivalents,  for  him! 

The  trouble  between  pastor  and  parish  naturally  grew 
deeper  and  deeper,  until,  at  a  stormy  town-meeting  held 
on  the  26th  of  April,  1779,  he  was  formally  declared  dis- 
missed, and  Birchmont — guileless  little  town! — fancied 
itself  rid  of  its  arch-tormentor.  The  parson,,  however, 
insisted  that  no  dismission  was  possible,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, without  the  verdict  of  an  ecclesiastical 
council.  One  was  accordingly  called,  which  advised  that 
the  parson  remain  for  six  months  longer,  and  see  if  mat- 
ters could  not  be  composed. 

Then  a  warrant  was  issued  by  the  town,  bidding  the 
constable  to  warn  every  man  in  Birchmont  to  assemble 
at  the  meeting-house  on  the  2Qth  of  August,  1781,  to  see 
"wheather  they  would  dismiss  and  discharge  the  said  Mr. 
Hewlett  from  the  work  and  business  of  dispencing  the 
word  of  God  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  said  town." 

The  meeting  voted  unanimously  to  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  the  redoubtable  parson:  but  still  he  stuck  like 
a  burr,  and  though  the  doors  of  the  meeting-house  were 
closed  against  him,  he  still  preached  every  Sunday  in  his 
own  house,  and  a  few  faithful  adherents  came  to  hear  him, 
who,  with  his  own  family,  must  have  constituted  quite 
an  audience;  and  still  he  kept  presenting  his  bills  to  the 


The  Case  of  Parson  Hewlett. 


99 


town,  refusing  to  depart  till  they  were  paid,  and  institut- 
ing lawsuits  to  bring  his  debtors  to  terms. 

To  the  simple  and  law-abiding  people  of  Birchmont,  to 
vv  horn  the  great  wig  and  grand  presence  of  Parson  Hew- 
lett were  a  "holy  terror,"  it  must  have  seemed  hopeless 
that  they  should  ever  get  rid  of  this  specious  nightmare. 
They  had  tried  every  means  known  to  them,  and  he  had 
met  and  baffled  all  their  attempts  to  displace  him. 
Whither  should  they  turn? 

About  this  time  the  northeastern  portion  of  Birchmont 
began  to  petition  to  be  made  into  a  separate  township. 
The  measure  had  encountered  serious  opposition,  but  one 
day  when  the  selectmen  were  assembled  to  consider  the 
matter,  a  happy  thought  struck  Deacon  Aaron  Rice. 

"It  might  do,  brethren,  to  make  a  new  town,"  he  sug- 
gested jocosely,  "if  we  could  only  pack  away  Parson 
Hewlett  and  his  farm  into  it." 

"It  would  be  a  stroke  of  generalship!"  cried  Dr.  Harts- 
horn. 

"Why  can't  we  do  it?"  echoed  George  Cannon. 

"But  it  would  make  the  shape  of  our  town  as  kitty- 
cornered  as  one  of  Mistress  Weddell's  Spanish-galleon 
quilts,"  objected  Deacon  Rice,  upon  second  thought. 

"And  the  meeting-house  would  have  to  go,J>  mused 
Dr.  Hartshorn. 

"My  brethren!"  cried  good  George  Cannon,  "we  never 
can  get  rid  of  that  old  reprobate  unless  we  do  something- 
radical.  I  tell  you,  it  would  be  cheap  if  we  could  foist 
him  on  another  town  by  paying  so  small  a  price  as  the 
meeting-house  and  the  shapeliness  of  our  town!" 

So  it  came  about  that  when  the  petition  went  in  final 
form  to  the  Great  and  General  Court  of  Massachusetts. 
for  the  laying  off  of  the  northeast  corner  of  the  town  of 


loo  White   Butterflies. 

Birchmont  into  the  new  town  of  Leith,  it  was  specified 
that  the  separation  was  desired  only  upon  the  condition 
that  the  house  and  farm  of  Parson  Hewlett  should  be  in- 
cluded in  the  new  township. 

It  must  surely  have  been  worth  while  to  see  the  stately 
parson  when  he  learned  of  this  checkmate  move  upon 
the  part  of  the  people  whom  he  had  no  doubt  believed 
to  be  completely  in  his  power.  Napoleon  at  Waterloo 
could  scarcely  have  felt  more  crestfallen.  The  old  fellow 
was  fairly  outwitted;  and  he  could  not  circumvent  the 
will  of  the  majority,  though  he  still  continued  to  harass 
Birchmont  for  his  unpaid  salary,  and  in  various  other 
ways  to  keep  wagging  tongues  busy.  Strong  in  doctrine 
and  lengthy  in  prayer  as  ever,  he  preached  on  for  many 
years  in  the  old  church,  now  restored  to  his  use.  He  was 
never  able,  however,  to  make  so  strong  and  advantageous 
a  contract  with  the  town  of  Leith  as  he  had  made  with 
Birchmont,  and  he  lived,  during  his  latter  years,  chiefly 
upon  the  produce  of  his  farm. 

It  had  almost  seemed  to  the  people  among  whom  he 
had  dwelt  for  so  long  that  his  indomitable  spirit  would 
never  yield  to  the  King  of  Terrors;  but,  in  1802,  Parson 
Hewlett's  time  came,  as  it  must  come  to  us  all. 

He  was  buried  upon  a  burning  summer's  day,  and  his 
coffin  was  carried  from  his  house  to  the  graveyard, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  period,  by  four  "bearers," 
chosen  from  among  the  most  prominent  men  in  the  vicin- 
ity. It  is  related  of  them  that,  the  road  being  long  and 
mostly  up  hill,  they  were  compelled  when  half  the  dis- 
tance had  been  accomplished  to  lay  down  their  burden 
until  they  could  recover  their  breath.  As  they  waited, 
good  Deacon  Rice,  who,  having  never  come  to  an  open 


The  Case  of  Parson  Hewlett.    101 

rupture  with  the  parson,  had  been  chosen  as  one  of  them, 
mopped  his  dripping  brow  and  remarked: 

"The  parson  was  a  heavier  man  than  he  looked,  my 
brethren." 

"Aye,  aye,"  rejoined  worthy  George  Cannon,  with  a 
twinkle  of  unsanctified  mirth  in  his  eye,  "it  is  a  heavy  load 
that  we  have  to  carry ;  but  I  bear  it  cheerfully,  my  breth- 
ren,— I  bear  it  cheerfully!" 


*<For  Looly." 


*  *~1  ~\  TELL,  Tom,  here's  your  month's  wages." 

\/%/          Old  Tom  Wicks's  wrinkled  and  tobacco- 
stained  visage  put  on  a  grin  of  intense  delight 
as  he  took  the  gold  piece  that  the  distillery  paymaster, 
young  Jim  Baskins,  handed  him. 

"And  look  Tiere,"  pursued  that  young  man,  whose 
flashy  attire  indicated  the  would-be  exquisite,  "why  don't 
you  use  this  money,  Tom,  to  fix  yourself  up  a  little? 
Here  you've  been  working  for  us  six  months,  and  every 
time  you  come  around  to  get  your  pay  you  look  poorer 
than  you  did  before.  Now,"  continued  Mr.  Jim  Baskins, 
out  of  the  kindness  of  a  heart  which  really  liked  and  pitied 
the  quiet,  ragged  old  teamster,  "take  this  money  and  get 
yourself  a  suit  of  clothes." 

The  old  man  did  not  look  displeased,  but  he  shook  his 
head  decidedly. 

"I  like  ye  fustrate,  Jim,"  he  said,  "but  I  cayn't." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why,  Merce,  my  gal — Mercy I  do'  know's  you 

knew  I  had  a  gal." 

The  old  man  stopped,  and  looked  as  though  he  won- 
dered if  he  could  quite  trust  Jim  Baskins.  Then  he  went 
on,  as  though  the  recollection  of  that  young  person's  kind 
offices,  which  had  been  as  numerous  toward  Tom  Wicks 
as  their  circumstances  had  permitted,  had  reassured  him. 

"Merce,  you  see,  she  ain't  had  no  chance.  An'  thar's 
Looly;  she's  the  little  'un;  she's  goin'  on  'leven  now, 
ye  know?" 

102 


"For   Looly."  103 

The  young  man  laughed  at  his  interrogative  tone. 
"No,  I  didn't  know;  but  I  do  know  now." 

"Wa'al,  she's  right  peart,  Looly  is;  an'  Merce  she  says, 
says  she,  'Looly 's  got  to  have  a  chance.'  She  jest  sots  by 
Looly  more'n  anything  else  in  the  world.  An',  Lord! 
what'd  she  do  when  I  got  this  chance  to  team  it  but,  says 
she,  'Now,  paw,  we've  got  this  er  money,'  says  she,  'an' 
when  thar's  a  lot  saved,  why,  we'll  take  it,  an'  Looly  shall 
go  to  school,  an'  Looly  shall  have  good  clo'es,'  says  she. 
'I'm  too  old,'  says  she — goin'  on  twenty,  Merce  is.  'But,' 
says  she,  Til  fix  things  so  't  Looly  kin  go,  'f  ye'll  give 
me  over  the  money,'  says  she." 

"Most  girls  would  have  wanted  it  for  themselves," 
commented  Mr.  Jim  Baskins,  getting  interested  in  old 
Tom  Wicks's  strange  daughter. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "Merce  ain't  that  kyind. 
She's  most  twice's  old's  the  little  'un;  named  her  herself 
outen  a  book  she  read.  Merce  is  a  powerful  hand  to 
read — kin  read  anything  an'  everything;  hez  read  all  the 
neighbors'  books;  reckon  she'd  'a  come  down  to  Marlins- 
burg  to  git  books,  on'y  she  ain't  been  down  yer  f'r  two  'r 
three  years  now;  says  she's  'shamed  to  come  yer,  'count 
of  her  clo'es;  powerful  proud,  Merce  is.  'But,'  says  she, 
'Looly'll  grow  up  harnsum  an'  smart,'  says  she,  'an' 
Looly '11  have  a  chance,  an'  good  clo'es;  an'  Looly  shall 
go  to  Marlinsburg  an'  everywhar,  an'  hold  up  her  head 
with  anybody.'  'But,'  says  I" — old  Tom  Wicks  warmed 
to  his  subject,  as  he  saw  the  eager  attention  paid  him  by 
his  absorbed  listener — "says  I,  'thar's  the  boys.  Ye 
cayn't  keep  them  boys  from  the  money,'  says  I — them 
boys — they's  two  on  'em,  eighteen  an'  sixteen  y'rs  old 
they  be,  an'  a  powerful  hard  lot,  Jake  an'  Lewt — up  ter 
everything.  'They'll  git  holt  of  it,  Merce,'  says  I;  'they'll 


104  White   Butterflies. 

steal  it  outen  my  pockets,  or  outen  the  teapot,  or  outen 
any  place  ye  chuse  ter  put  it,'  says  I.  An'  Merce,  she 
says,  says  she,  They  will,  will  they?  That  money'll  go 
fer  Looly,'  says  she.  'I'll  hide  it  whar  nobody  cayn't  git 

it,  boys  nor  nobody  else,'  she  says;  an'  'pon  that  she 

Now  ye  won't  never  tell  what  I'm  goin'  ter  say?"  queried 
the  old  man,  pulling  himself  up  short,  and  suddenly  recol- 
lecting that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  disclosing  a  state 
secret  of  stupendous  proportions.  The  painfully  curious 
look  he  gave  into  the  vain  but  honest  face  of  Jim  Baskins, 
added  to  the  bluff  assurance  of  the  latter  that  "he  never 
would,  so  help  him!"  delivered  in  the  most  convincing 
manner,  restored  the  old  man's  confidence,  and  he  went 
on:  "She  started" — Tom  Wicks  lowered  his  voice  im- 
pressively— "the  fust  night  I  drawed  my  pay,  an'  up  she 
skips  it  onto  the  mountain;  an'  she's  got  a  iron  box  up 
thar,  an'  she's  dug  a  hole,  an'  thar  she  puts  it,  an'  them 
boys  hain't  no  conceit  o'  whar  the  money  goes  ter.  They 
thinks  I  banks  it  'r  suthin'  down  yer.  That's  why  I  wants 
it  in  gold,"  said  the  old  man,  apologetically.  "Merce 
says,  'It  mought  be  ten  years  afore  we'll  get  it  all  spent/ 
says  she,  'an'  it'd  better  be  gold.'  " 

"You  do  pretty  much  as  'Merce'  says,  don't  you?"  re- 
marked the  young  man,  with  something  of  a  sneer  in 
his  tone. 

Tom  Wicks  bristled.  "Ye — don't — know — Mercy 
Wicks,"  he  said,  straightening  up  and  looking  at  young 
Baskins  with  warning  in  his  eyes.  "She's  a  prime  'un, 
Merce  is.  Got  a  head — lord,  what  a  deep  'un  she  is! 
Talks  jes'  like  a  book — read  so  many  novels.  The  old 
woman  she  dips  mostly;  an'  thar's  Bet  to  hum — she's 
goin'  on  fifteen.  Then  thar  was  some  more,  but  they 
died  when  they  was  babies.  But  Bet  she's  sorter  wooden- 


"For   Looly."  105 

headed,  an'  it's  Merce  't  keeps  'em  all  a-goin'.  Merce 
ain't  had  no  chance,  but  she's  a  powerful  smart  gal." 

"You  haven't  ever  asked  me  up  to  your  house,  Tom," 
said  the  young  man,  insinuatingly. 

Tom  Wicks  understood  him,  but  he  hesitated. 

"Do  you  have  to  ask  'Merce,'  as  you  call  her,  before 
you  can  invite  anybody  to  tea?" 

Young  Baskins  laughed  good-humoredly,  but  his 
words  had  a  sarcastic  sting  in  them  for  the  fond  father. 

"  'Tain't  much  of  a  place  to  ask  folks  to,"  he  said  at 
length. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  meet  your  family,"  persisted  Jim 
Baskins.  "I've  been  a  good  deal  interested  in  your  ac- 
count of  them,  and  I'd  like  to  see  them." 

"Merce,  she  says,"  suggested  the  old  man,  floundering 
about  in  his  attempt  to  avoid  doing  something  which  he 
knew  would  displease  his  daughter — "she  says  we're 
too  dog-on  low  an'  poor  to  have  respectable  company,  an' 
she  ain't  a-goin'  to  have  no  other  kind." 

"She  must  be  a  very  proud-spirited  girl."  Mr.  Jim 
Baskins  ignored  any  inferences  that  might  have  been 
drawn  by  a  more  captious  person  from  Mr.  Wicks's  re- 
monstrance. 

"Wa'al,  the  old  woman  she  ain't  no  great  hand  fer 
cookin',  an'  Merce  ain't  never  had  nobody  to  tell  her 
how.  She  does  the  best  she  knows,  but,  lord — wa'al, 
I  s'pose  ye  can  come,  'f  ye'll  excuse  the  looks" — the  old 
man's  naturally  hospitable  disposition  inclined  him  to 
yield  to  Mr.  Baskins's  importunity — "an"  'f  Merce  is 
kinder  cross,  ye  mustn't  mind." 

Mr.  Jim  Baskins  smiled  a  complacent  smile  as  he 
glanced  down  at  the  tawdry  plaids  and  checks  of  his 
spring  suit  and  the  glittering  chains  and  rings  which 


106  White   Butterflies. 

bedecked  his  comfortable  person.  It  must  be  a  very 
hard-hearted  maiden,  he  thought,  who  could  long  be 
angry  with  such  as  he. 

"I'm  not  so  terribly  afraid  of  'Merce'  as  you  are,"  he 
said. 

The  old  man  gave  his  head  a  significant  twist,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "Wait  until  you  see  her,"  and  turning  his  gaunt 
horses  away  from  the  low  distillery  in  front  of  which 
they  had  been  talking,  they  jolted  away  up  the  mountain 
side  and  toward  the  lonely  gulch,  or  hollow,  in  which 
stood  the  small  homestead  of  the  Wicks  family.  It  was  a 
weary  ride,  and  the  long  spring  day  had  vanished  into  a 
starry  night  when  Tom  Wicks  drew  up  with  a  startling 
"Whoa!"  in  front  of  the  squalid  and  unsavory-looking 
abode  where  they  were  to  alight. 

Mr.  Jim  Baskins  could  not  help  giving  a  little  gasp  of 
dismay  when  he  saw  it.  He  hadn't  expected  anything 
quite  so  bad  as  that. 

The  old  man  vaguely  felt  his  visitor's  disappointment. 

"I  told  you  so,"  he  said,  half  angrily,  half  sorrowfully. 
"Ye  needn't  'a  come.  I  didn't  urge  ye." 

"Who  said  anything?"  began  the  young  man,  in  con- 
fused apology  for  his  unspoken  offence,  when  his  speech 
was  cut  short  by  the  apparition  of  a  young  woman  who 
had  opened  the  door  at  the  sound  of  Tom  Wicks's 
"Whoa!"  and  was  hurrying  towards  him.  "Have  you 
got  it,  pa?"  she  asked,  eagerly,  and  she  had  approached 
quite  close  to  him  before  she  observed  the  young  man 
sitting  on  the  other  side.  . 

"Here's  Mr.  Baskins — Jim  Baskins,  of  Marlinsburg 
— Merce,"  he  said,  trying  feebly  to  smile  as  he  announced 
his  unwelcome  guest.  "He  thought  he'd  kinder  like  ter 


"For  Looly."  107 

see  the  country  hereabouts,  and  I  brought  him  up  to 
supper  with  us." 

Mercy  Wicks's  fine  face  darkened,  and  she  looked 
down  instinctively  upon  her  soiled  and  ragged  dress  and 
her  bare  feet.  Old  Wicks  could  not  have  told  what 
there  was  in  her  motion  that  affected  him — this  sudden 
mortification  on  the  part  of  a  girl  who  had  scarcely  ever 
in  her  life  worn  a  better  garb  than  the  tattered  and  un- 
sightly one  in  which  she  was  clad  at  that  moment;  but 
he  felt  just  then  as  though  he  would  rather  have  died 
than  have  brought  young  Baskins  up  from  Marlinsburg. 
He  rejoiced  inwardly  that  he  had  had  the  courage  to 
suggest  to  that  individual  during  their  ride .  up  the 
mountain  that,  in  case  there  wasn't  any  place  for  him 
to  sleep  in  the  Wicks  cottage,  there  was  a  man  a  mile 
further  on  who  would  keep  him  for  a  slight  considera- 
tion. 

"There  isn't  much  for  supper,"  said  Mercy,  deliberately 
regarding  the  interloper  with  wide  blue  eyes,  and  holding 
herself  erect  with  an  air  of  dignity  quite  out  of  keeping 
with  her  surroundings,  "but  what  we've  got,  Mr.  Baskins 
can  have  too,  I  suppose.  Supper  is  all  ready." 

Her  voice  was  pleasant,  in  spite  of  the  disapproba- 
tion which  deepened  it,  and  her  manner  was  that  of  a 
person  accustomed  to  authority;  and  although  the  light 
braids  of  hair  which  hung  far  down  her  back  bore  visible 
signs  of  neglect,  and  the  details  of  her  whole  appearance 
were  far  from  prepossessing,  there  was  something  about 
her  which  made  the  young  man  feel  that  her  father's 
eulogies  upon  her  were  not  misplaced,  and  that  she  was  a 
girl  capable  of  much  heroism,  albeit  Mr.  Jim  Baskins  was 
not  particularly  susceptible  to  impressions,  and  his  fibre 
was  coarse.  He  wondered  whether,  if  she  were  attired 


108  White   Butterflies. 

after  the  fashion  of  the  "set"  of  young  ladies  with  whom 
he  associated  in  Marlinsburg,  she  would  be  "pretty." 
This,  however,  was  rather  too  much  for  Mr.  Baskins's 
imagination,  and  he  did  not  long  dwell  upon  it. 

The  supper  consisted  of  a  hoe-cake,  a  pitcher  of  mo- 
lasses, some  cold  sliced  bacon,  and  a  pot  of  tea,  and 
though  served  in  a  style  which  was  not  particularly  ap- 
petizing, young  Mr.  Baskins  was  able  to  disregard  that, 
and  to  eat  a  hearty  meal.  The  two  "boys"  were  not  pres- 
ent, but  their  absence  did  not  seem  to  be  anything  un- 
usual, and  nobody  appeared  to  sorrow  because  they  were 
not  there. 

They  were  scarcely  seated  around  the  rickety  table 
when  Mercy  exclaimed,  "Bet,  where's  ma?" 

A  tallow-faced  girl,  to  whom  Mr.  Wicks  had  not 
thought  it  necessary  to  introduce  their  visitor,  rose  from 
the  table,  and  turning  herself  slowly  about,  peered  into 
the  recesses  of  the  one  room  which  formed  the  lower 
story  of  the  little  cabin. 

"I  dun  know,"  she  answered,  stupidly. 

"Go  out  doors,  Looly,"  said  Mercy  to  the  bright-faced 
little  creature  who  was  sitting  close  beside  her;  "maybe 
she's  out  there — fell  asleep,  perhaps,  under  the  big  tree." 

The  child  started  obediently,  and  soon  returned,  say- 
ing that  her  mother  was  indeed  "out  under  the  big  tree," 
but  that  she  could  not  wake  her  up  nor  make  her  under- 
stand that  supper  was  ready.  Her  sister  made  no  com- 
ment upon  this  information,  nor  did  anyone  else,  and  the 
meal  went  on  in  silence. 

"Been  having  a  big  revival  in  Marlinsburg,"  began 
Mr.  Baskins,  at  last,  in  an  attempt  to  promote  socia- 
bility. 

"Ye  don't  say,"  responded  Tom  Wicks. 


"For   Looly."  109 

"Oh,  yes;  they're  all  getting  religion  down  our  way. 
Moonshining'll  have  to  go  under,  I  reckon." 

The  old  man  looked  half  alarmed.  He  could  not  bear 
to  think  for  an  instant  that  the  great  industry  upon 
which  he  was  a  pensioner  could  possibly  "go  under." 

"Oh,  not  so  bad  as  that,"  continued  Mr.  Baskins,  with 
a  short  laugh,  observing  his  host's  startled  expression, 
"but  it  does  seem  as  if  half  Marlinsburg  was  going  to 
the  meetings  and  getting  converted.  Old  Sparhawk, 
that  railroad  man  down  there,  lives  in  that  splendid 
house,  richest  man  in  Marlinsburg,  he's  been  converted; 
and  his  son — just  come  of  age,  I  believe — he's  going 
to  be  a  parson,  they  say.  Oh,  there's  no  end  of  a  fuss 
down  there.  I  don't  take  much  stock  in  it  myself." 

Mercy  was  looking  at  him  now,  with  wide-open,  in- 
terested eyes. 

"I  went  to  a  meeting  once,  she  said,  with  a  simplic- 
ity that  disarmed  all  his  previous  criticism. 

"Well,  you  didn't  think  much  of  it,  did  you?"  he  asked, 
jokingly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  gravely.  "I  liked  it  very  much. 
The  man  that  preached — it  was  up  here  on  the  camp- 
ground— he  gave  me  a  Testament.  I've  read  it  through 
a  great  many  times." 

"Understand  it  all?"  inquired  the  young  man,  cyn- 
ically. 

"No,"  she  said,  relaxing  nothing  of  her  seriousness. 
"But  I  can  understand  some  of  it,"  she  added,  a  moment 
later. 

"Pretty  good  hunting  hereabouts?"  asked  Mr.  Bas- 
kins, abruptly.  He  wanted  to  change  the  subject  of  the 
conversation.  He  had  not  counted  upon  the  girl's  tak- 
ing it  so  much  in  earnest. 


no  White   Butterflies. 

"Ask  Merce,"  said  the  old  man;  "she  an'  the  boys 
mostly  'tends  to  the  shootin'." 

"So  you  can  shoot?"  interrogated  Mr.  Baskins,  turn- 
ing patronizingly  to  Mercy  Wicks. 

"Yes,"  said  Mercy,  pleasantly. 

"Can  you  hit  'em  on  the  wing?"  inquired  the  young 
man,  jocularly. 

"Every  time,"  she  returned,  as  good-humoredly.  A 
little  scowl  that  had  hitherto  rested  upon  her  face  was 
disappearing,  and  this  unwonted  social  relaxation  lent 
her  a  look  of  interest  and  vivacity.  Mr.  Baskins  began 
to  decide  that,  properly  accoutred,  she  might,  after  all, 
be  "pretty." 

He  sat  next  her,  and  now  he  moved  his  chair  a  little 
nearer  to  hers. 

"Why  don't  you  sometimes  drive  down  with  your 
father  to  Marlinsburg?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  get  much  time  to  drive  around,"  replied 
Mercy,  shrinking  into  herself  a  little  as  she~  felt,  rather 
than  observed,  the  slight  change  in  his  manner. 

"I  should  be  pleased  to  take  you  around  the  town," 
he  continued,  with  attempted  gallantry. 

"I  can't  go."  Mercy  turned  abruptly  to  her  father: 
"You'd  better  go  out  and  fetch  in  ma.  She'll  catch 
her  death  out  there  in  the  damp." 

The  old  man  rose  slowly  and  walked  away. 

"Are  you  going  back  to  Marlinsburg  to-night?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Baskins's  peculiar  young  hostess.  She  had 
been  perplexed  upon  this  subject  ever  since  he  had 
come,  and  her  straightforward  and  untaught  soul  was 
determined  to  discover  his  intentions. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  her  guest,  in  some  embarrass- 


«  For   Looly."  in 

ment.  "Your  father  said  something  about  a  house  not 
far  away  where -they  sometimes  took  lodgers." 

''You  see,  we.  haven't  any  room  in  this  house  to  keep 
anybody,"  said  Mercy,  with  frank  seriousness.  "I  didn't 
know  but  you  came  up  to  see  somebody  else." 

"No,"  said  the  young  man,  looking  intently  into  her 
face.  "I  came  up  here  expressly  to  see  you." 

"To  see  me?"  she  repeated,  incredulously. 

"Your  father  has  told  me  a  good  deal  about  you,  and 
I  thought  I  should  like  to  get  acquainted  with  you.  He 
warned  me  that  you  didn't  like  company  very  well." 

"I  wish  pa  would  keep  still,"  said  Mercy,  angrily. 

At  that  moment  the  old  man  appeared  at  the  door, 
leading  his  wife  by  the  hand.  She  was  a  flabby,  stout  old 
creature,  and  even  more  untidy  and  unkempt-looking 
than  her  daughters. 

There  was  a  fire  burning  on  the  ashy  hearth,  for  it  was 
still  early  in  May,  and  the  evenings  were  chilly.  The 
old  woman,  after  a  staring  survey  of  the  newcomer,  and 
a  word  of  welcome  upon  her  introduction  to  him,  dropped 
into  a  large  rocking  chair  in  the  chimney  corner,  and, 
while  Mr.  Wicks  and  Jim  Baskins  engaged  in  a  mono- 
syllabic conversation,  Mercy  and  her  two  sisters  cleared 
the  supper  table,  and  in  a  lame  and  perfunctory  manner 
washed  the  dishes.  During  the  progress  of  her  work, 
Mr.  Baskins  had  ventured  to  address  several  remarks  to 
A/Tercy,  but  she  had  answered  him  very  briefly.  It  did 
not  suit  that  independent  young  person  to  have  her  father 
bringing  home  with  him  young  men  tricked  out  as  this 
one  was,  and  avowing  that  they  had  come  "expressly 
to  see  her."  In  truth,  it  was  chiefly  pondering  upon  this 
strange  avowal  that  had  kept  her  so  silent.  The  young 
men  in  the  neighborhood  of  "Wicks's  Hollow"  were  all 


112  White   Butterflies. 

utterly  disagreeable  to  her,  and  as  she  took  no  pains  to 
disguise  her  feelings,  she  was  naturally  not  popular 
among  them.  She  had  long  ago  given  up  all  thought  of 
life  as  holding  any  especial  sweetness  or  glory  for  herself. 
Love  was  something  that  she  had  read  a  good  deal  about, 
but  she  had  long  felt  that  there  was  nothing  of  that  sort 
in  store  for  her.  Therefore  the  idea  of  having  a  young 
man  come  to  see  her  aroused  but  faintly  her  long-sub- 
dued desire  for  affection,  and  she  felt  only  a  vague  and 
unpleasant  self-consciousness  whenever  she  looked  in 
Mr.  Baskins's  direction. 

When  her  work,  over  which  she  had  busied  herself 
an  unusually  long  time,  offered  no  further  excuse  for  her 
to  move  about  the  room,  she  beckoned  her  father  to 
come  to  her,  and  held  a  whispered  conversation  with  him 
in  a  distant  corner  of  the  room. 

"Not  to-night,"  Mr.  Baskins  heard  the  old  man  say, 
after  a  little. 

"Oh,  yes,"  pleaded  the  girl.  "The  boys  may  come 
home  any  time  now." 

"But  he's  here,"  objected  Tom  Wicks,  in  a  loud 
whisper. 

"I  don't  care,"  returned  Mercy;  "I  don't  want  to  see 
him." 

Mr.  Baskins  winced  a  little.  He  was  used  to  being 
made  a  great  deal  of  among  his  "set"  in  Marlinsburg, 
and  though  he  cared  little  enough  for  this  untaught 
daughter  of  the  backwoods,  he  did  not  enjoy  such  abso- 
lute indifference  on  her  part.1  It  was  rather  interesting  to 
see  her  blue  eyes  open  wide,  to  hear  her  voice,  and  to 
watch  her  stately  figure  as  she  moved  around  the  room. 
On  the  whole,  he  did  not  fancy  the  idea  of  her  willing- 
ness to  be  gone  all  the  evening  any  more  than  her  father 


"For   Looly."  113 

seemed  to,  and  he  understood  very  well,  from  what  Tom 
Wicks  had  told  him,  that  she  was  asking  for  his  month's 
pay,  in  order  to  secrete  it  up  on  the  mountain,  and  that 
her  father  was  protesting  against  such  an  tmcourteous 
proceeding.  On  the  whole,  Mr.  Jim  Baskins  concluded 
that  he  had  better  be  going. 

"I  wonder  if  I  can  find  that  place  where  they  keep 
people  over  night?"  he  remarked,  interrogatively,  as  Mr. 
Wicks,  having  evidently  been  worsted  in  his  argument 
with  Mercy,  prepared  to  resume  his  seat  beside  his  guest. 

"Sho,  now,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  appealingly 
toward  his  daughter;  "cayn't  we  fix  him  up " 

"Now,  pa,  you  know,"  interrupted  Mercy,  fiercely, 
"there  isn't  a  decent  bed  in  the  house." 

"They  ain't  made  o'  down,  I  know,"  admitted  her 
father,  meekly;  "but  sho,  now,  Merce,  cayn't  we  git 
him  up " 

"No,  we  can't,"  declared  Mercy,  peremptorily.  And 
here  Jim  Baskins,  who  could  not  help  noticing  that  her 
face  had  assumed  a  color  and  her  eye  a  fire  during  this 
discussion  which  made  her  positively  handsome,  inter- 
rupted the  discussion  to  decline  any  further  effort  to  ar- 
range quarters  for  him  in  the  Wicks  mansion. 

"I  wouldn't  inconvenience  you  for  anything,  Miss 
Mercy,"  he  said,  politely;  "and  although  I  appreciate 
your  kindness,  Mr.  Wicks,  it  is  much  better  that  I  should 
go  elsewhere." 

The  genuine  courtesy  of  his  manner  wakened  Mercy's 
sense  of  propriety,  and  she  spoke  repentantly  and 
eagerly. 

"I'll  show  you  the  way,"  she  said.     "It  isn't  much 
further  for  me  to  go  past  there.     It  is  a  pretty  good 
place — much  better  than  our  house." 
ft 


114  White  Butterflies. 

"I'll  go  with  him  if  he's  got  to  go,"  said  Tom  Wicks, 
sullenly. 

"No,  you  needn't,"  returned  Mercy,  the  violence  of 
her  manner  all  gone;  and  quietly  taking  down  an  old 
straw  hat  and  a  worn  shawl  from  a  peg  beside  the  door, 
she  put  them  on,  and  they  walked  out  into  the  clear 
starlight  of  the  May  night. 

Everything  was  very  still,  and  they  hurried  on  some 
distance  without  speaking. 

"I  should  think  you  would  be  afraid  to  go  upon  the 
mountain  alone  at  night,"  said  the  young  man  at  last. 

She  raised  her  shawl  and  showed  a  belt  beneath  it, 
in  which  was  thrust  a  shining  revolver.  Then  she  folded 
her  shawl  together  again,  and  drew  herself  up  proudly. 

"I'm  not  afraid  when  I  have  that  on,"  she  said. 
"There's  wildcats  on  the  mountain,"  she  added,  "and 
some  foxes,  but  I  don't  mind  them.  I  don't  mind  any- 
thing"— her  voice  dropped  almost  to  a  whisper — "when 
it's  for  Looly." 

"You  do  it  for  Looly,  then?"  said  Jim  Baskins,  pre- 
tending ignorance. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  simply, 
and  looking  at  him  hard  in  the  dim  light,  "but  father 
says  you're  honest  as  the  day  is  long,  and  so  I  don't  mind 
telling  you.  'You  see,  the  boys  would  get  father's  money 
if  it  was  left  anywhere  around  the  house,  so  I  hide  it  up 
on  the  mountain,  and  I'm  going  to  spend  it  for  Looly 
one  of  these  days." 

"I  should  think  you  would  have  your  father  put  it  in 
a  bank." 

"The  boys  think  that  is  where  he  puts  it,  but  pa 
brings  me  up  a  newspaper  now  and  then,  and  I'm  always 
reading  how  somebody  has  run  off  with  the  bank's 


"For  Looly."  115 

money;  so  when  pa  said,  Tut  it  in  a  bank,'  I  said,  'No; 
I'll  hide  it  where  it  will  be  safe';  and  I  do.  You'll  surely 
not  tell?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  soberly.  "I'm  your  friend,  and  I 
think  it's  very  nice  that  you  are  saving  up  your  money 
for  your  pretty  little  sister.  Most  girls  would  spend  it  for 
themselves." 

Mercy's  fine  face  softened.  "I'd  rather  have  Looly 
have  things,"  she  exclaimed,  passionately,  "than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world." 

"She  is  a  very  pretty  little  girl,"  said  Jim  Baskins, 
patronizingly. 

"She's  very  much  nicer  than  Bet,"  Mercy  continued 
more  quietly.  "She  can  read  and  write  and  cipher  some; 
but  Bet's  dull  enough." 

"Who  taught  Looly  all  these  things?" 

"I  did,"  said  the  girl.  "I  don't  know  who  taught  me. 
I  reckon  pa  began  it.  He  can  read,  and  so  could  ma 
years  ago,  but  she's  forgotten  how.  Bet's  hateful,  too," 
pursued  Mercy,  with  a  philosophical  calmness  of  analysis, 
"while  Looly  never  is.  I  don't  let  Looly  run  around 
as  Bet  does.  I've  seen  lots  of  wickedness  in  this  neigh- 
borhood," she  went  on,  with  an  air  of  experience,  which 
was  amusing  even  to  Mr.  Jim  Baskins's  somewhat  obtuse 
perceptions,  "but  Looly  shan't  see  any  of  it.  I'm  going 
to  give  Looly  a  chance.  But  here's  your  place.  Good- 
night." 

She  turned  from  him  abruptly,  the  flutter  of  her  gar- 
ments swept  past  him  in  the  starlight,  and  he  found 
himself  standing  alone  beside  a  faintly  illumined  house, 
while  a  dark  figure  creeping  up  a  hillside  several  rods 
away  showed  him  that  the  daring  girl  was  already  well 
started  on  her  errand  of  love. 


116  White  Butterflies. 

Then  he  went  in.  He  found  that  everything  was  as 
his  young  conductor  had  described  it,  and  he  was  soon 
asleep,  and  dreaming  of  young  girls  who  walked  like 
empresses,  abjured  ceremony  altogether,  wore  revolvers 
in  their  belts,  and  climbed  lonely  mountains  at  dead  of 
night. 

In  the  meantime  Mercy  was  resolutely  pursuing  her 
way  up  the  mountain  side,  and  it  was  a  full  hour  after 
she  left  Mr.  Jim  Baskins  before  she  paused  at  all.  Then 
she  threw  herself  down  underneath  a  great  pine  tree 
which  had  been  struck  by  lightning,  and  which,  stand- 
ing by  itself  upon  a  little  knoll,  was  easily  discernible 
from  the  valley  below. 

Beneath  its  bare  and  blasted  limbs  was  a  large  brown 
stone,  as  large  as  Mercy  could  lift,  but  she  managed  to 
insert  her  hand  beneath  it,  and  to  draw  out  therefrom 
an  iron  box.  This  she  unlocked,  depositing  her  treasure 
in  it,  and  then  she  returned  it  to  its  hiding  place. 

"It's  very  strange,"  she  soliloquized,  "that  that  young 
man  should  have  come  up  from  Marlinsburg  to  see  me. 
Any  of  the  young  fellows  around  Wicks's  Hollow  could 
have  told  him  that  I  didn't  treat  the  young  men  very 
well.  Now  there's  Sally."  "Sally"  was  Mercy's  older 
sister.  "Ever  since  Sally  married  Bill,  what  a  life  she's 
led!  Sally  was  better  than  Bet  too,  but  now  it's  drink- 
ing and  quarrelling  and  quarrelling  and  drinking  every 
minute.  I  wouldn't  marry  one  of  'em — not  for  anything; 
and  I  wouldn't  let  Looly.  Perhaps  Looly'll  grow  up  and 
be  like  the  ladies  that  ride  by  once  in  a  while  in  their 
carriages.  Perhaps  she  will  marry  one  of  those  fine 
men — such  as  we  read  about.  I'd  like  that  for  me,  too, 
but  not  one  of  these  men  around  here,  nor  like  this 
Mr.  Baskins;  but  of  course  I  can't;  I  haven't  had  any 


"For   Looly."  nr 

diance.  Looly  shall  be  different.  I  won't  have  Looly 
feel  ashamed  of  herself  as  I  do,  not  if  I  die  for  it." 

There  was  a  rustling  in  the  bushes,  and  the  girl  sprang 
up  a  trifle  nervously,  and  peered  into  the  darkness, 
clutching  her  weapon  more  closely.  Then  she  pulled  her 
shawl  around  her,  and  taking  a  different  path  from  that 
by  which  she  had  come,  she  was  not  long  in  reaching  her 
father's  cabin.  "The  boys"  had  not  come  even  yet,  and 
all  the  rest  were  asleep,  excepting  Bet,  who  sat  beside 
the  sputtering  candle,  nodding  in  a  stupid  doze.  The 
foul  air  of  the  squalid  interior  struck  with  a  new  force 
upon  the  girl's  quickened  sense. 

"I  wish  it  was  different,"  she  sighed  aloud.  "It  isn't 
as  it  ought  to  be;  but  dear  me!  dear  me!  I  can't  seem 
to  fix  it";  and  she  wearily  climbed  the  ladder  that  led 
to  the  loft,  and  was  soon  asleep  beside  her  little  sister. 

It  was  less  than  a  week  from  the  time  that  Mr.  Bas- 
kins  had  made  his  first  visit  to  Wicks's  Hollow  that  he 
found  his  way  thither  again.  This  time  he  came  on 
horseback  by  himself,  and  early  in  the  afternoon.  Some- 
how the  thought  of  the  proud  girl  whom  he  had  seen 
had  haunted  him.  He  wished,  with  a  sort  of  unreason- 
able persistence,  to  see  her  again,  and  as  Jim  Baskins, 
though  by  no  means  refined,  and  not  what  would  be 
called  a  cultivated  fellow,  was  clean,  and  had  been 
brought  up  by  a  neat  and  methodical  mother,  he  thought 
with  real  pity  of  Mercy's  ignorance  of  the  first  principles 
of  tidiness  and  good  housekeeping. 

"I  wonder,"  reflected  Mr.  Baskins — "I  wonder  if  she 
couldn't  learn  a  good  deal  out  of  one  of  these  books  that 
they  have  about  such  things?" 

He  decided  that  probably  she  could,  and  he  therefore 
bought  a  work  of  that  character;  and  as  he  happened  that 


118  White  Butterflies. 

very  day  to  come  across  a  little  book  of  the  nature  of  a 
tract,  entitled  "Cleanliness  is  Next  to  Godliness,"  he  de- 
termined to  make  up  a  package  of  books  for  Mercy,  and 
to  inclose  surreptitiously  within  it  the  two  volumes  which 
he  intended  for  her  personal  improvement.  This  pack- 
age he  finally  concluded  to  take  up  to  her  himself. 

He  found  her  as  indifferent  to  him  as  before.  The 
influences  of  the  starlight,  and  of  her  repentance  for  her 
rudeness  to  him,  had  made  her  very  gentle  and  com- 
municative during  their  evening  walk  together,  but 
Mercy  had  thought  matters  over  thoroughly  since 
then,  and  she  had  made  up  her  mind  that,  in  case  Jim 
Baskins  should  ever  come  to  Wicks's  Hollow  again — 
something  wLich  she  thought  very  unlikely  to  happen 
— she  would  not  be  any  more  agreeable  to  him  than  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  insure  the  safe-keeping  of  the 
secret  which,  not  knowing  of  her  father's  previous  con- 
fidences, she  felt  that  she  had  rather  unwisely  confided 
to  him. 

But  Mercy's  indifference  was  not  proof  against  a  pack- 
age of  beautiful  new  books. 

"For  me?"  she  cried,  when  he  had  handed  them  to 
her,  and  she  had  opened  the  bundle.  "And  Looly  and 
I  can  read  them?  See  here,  Looly!  Isn't  it  splendid?" 

Mercy's  face  grew  rosy  with  pleasure,  and  her  eyes 
glowed.  The  young  man  forgot  her  tangled  braids  and 
her  tattered  gown.  She  was  positively  beautiful. 

She  opened  one  book  after  another  in  bewildered 
ecstasy,  and  could  hardly  wait  until  her  visitor  had  gone, 
to  examine  their  contents.  Mr.  Baskins  did  not  stay 
very  long.  He  saw  her  impatience,  and  it  pleased,  while 
at  the  same  time  it  piqued,  him:  When  he  rode  away,  he 
mentally  registered  a  vow  to  come  soon  again  up  to 


"For   Looly.'"  119 

Wicks's  Hollow,  and  to  observe  what  effect  the  works, 
upon  whose  selection  he  had  expended  so  much  care, 
had  had  upon  the  young  girl  whom  he  so  much  desired 
to  cultivate. 

That  night,  when  Mercy  went  to  bed,  she  thought 
more  favorably  than  before  of  Mr.  Jim  Baskins. 

"How  good  it.  was  of  him  to  bring  us  so  many  books!" 
she  reflected,  gratefully.  "I  shouldn't  blame  him — nor 
anybody  else — for  despising  us;  but  he  has  been  very 
kind  to  us,  and  the  next  time  he  comes,  I'm  going  to 
treat  him  better." 

On  the  following  morning  Mercy  was  up  betimes,  and 
as  soon  as  her  father  and  his  horses  disappeared  behind 
the  brow  of  the  hill  that  overhung  Wicks's  Hollow,  she 
sat  down,  with  Looly  beside  her,  to  the  pile  of  books. 
"The  boys"  were  off  on  a  fishing  expedition,  Bet  was 
idling  under  the  shade  of  a  tree  outside,  and  Mrs.  Wicks 
rocked  and  dipped  in  placid  stupidity  by  the  fire,  all 
oblivious  of  the  breakfast  table  still  standing,  and  of  the 
general  disorder  of  the  little  cabin. 

The  cover  of  the  volume  on  "Cleanliness  is  Next  to 
Godliness"  was  of  an  enticing  blue,  and  Mercy  hastened 
to  open  it  and  to  inspect  its  contents.  The  subject  was 
treated  plainly  and  practically,  and  Mercy  read  on  ab- 
sorbedly  after  she  had  once  begun.  No  such  work  had 
ever  before  come  under  her  notice,  and  Mr.  Jim  Baskins 
had  buihled  even  better  than  he  knew  in  enclosing  it 
in  his  friendly  package. 

"That's  the  way  people  live,"  she  said,  raising  her 
head  after  a  while,  and  looking  sadly  out  of  the  window; 
"nice  people  don't  live  as  we  do.  That's  the  way  I  want 
you  to  live,  Looly— dear  little  Looly!"  She  caught  the 


120  White  Butterflies. 

delicate  child  up  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her.    "And  yet 
how  we  live!    How  lazy,  how  very  lazy,  we  are!" 

She  sat  there  for  a  moment,  rocking  and  kissing  the 
child  passionately,  when  a  shadow  fell  across  the  door- 
way, and  Mercy  saw  that  a  young  man  was  standing 
there,  and  that  a  beautiful  horse,  from  which  he  had 
evidently  just  alighted,  was  tied  to  a  tree,  outside. 

She  sprang  up  and  looked  at  him  in  curious  surprise. 
He  was  a  gentleman — this  Mercy  felt,  without  any  defi- 
nite thought  on  the  subject,  in  every  fibre  of  her  being. 
Then  she  looked  down  at  herself,  as  she  had  looked  when 
her  father  had  brought  Jim  Baskins  up  to  see  them,  only 
with  a  keener  mortification,  and  from  herself  she  looked 
around  upon  the  untidy  room.  If  she  had  felt  its  mean- 
ness and  foulness  a  moment  before,  in  the  light  shed 
upon  it  by  the  illuminating  little  volume  which  she  had 
just  been  reading,  how  much  more  did  she  feel  it  in  the 
presence  of  this  man,  whose  elegance  and  refinement 
struck  the  girl  with  a  sense  of  romance — as  if  he  had  just 
stepped  out  of  one  of  the  novels  that  she  had  read.  His 
glance  rested,  as  he  bowed  to  her  in  kindly  greeting, 
upon  the  disordered  room,  and  Mercy  herself  almost  felt 
the  little  shudder  which  he  gave  as  he  took  it  all  in. 

"I  know,"  she  cried,  without  waiting  for  him  to  speak, 
intuitively  fathoming  his  thought,  and  as  intuitively  im- 
ploring his  leniency — "I  know  I  oughtn't  to  have  let 
things  go  so,  but  Mr.  Baskins  brought  me  up  some  books 
to  read,  and  so  I  sat  right  down  to  read  them.  It  wasn't 
nice;  it  wasn't  right." 

She  spoke  with  an  eagerness  that,  knowing  nothing 
of  the  experience  through  which  she  had  been  passing, 
her  visitor  could  not  understand. 

He  murmured  some  formal  words,  politely  disclaiming 


"For   Looly."  121 

the  need  of  apology,  but  was  interrupted  by  the  drawling 
tones  of  Mrs.  Wicks,  who  had  temporarily  roused  herself 
to  gaze  upon  the  distinguished  stranger. 

"Law,  Merce,"  she  said,  tugging  at  her  chair  so  as  to 
bring  it  around  where  she  could  get  a  better  view  of 
their  visitor,  "what  ye  goin'  on  so,  fer?  Cayn't  ye  give 
the  gentleman  a  chair?" 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  young  man,  who  seemed  little 
more  than  a  boy,  with  his  fresh  face,  slight  mustache,  and 
crisp  dark  hair;  "my  name  is  Wesley  Sparhawk,  and  I 
live  in  Marlinsburg.  I  was  about  to  take  a  ride  across 
the  mountain,  and  my  father  suggested  that  I  should 
carry  with  me  some  Bibles  and  tracts,  and  distribute 
them  along  the  way.  I'm  not  much  used  to  such  work," 
he  said,  smiling  into  Mercy's  eager  face,  "but  I'm  more 
than  willing  to  try  and  do  a  little  good — and  I  will  leave 
some  with  you,  if  you  like." 

Looly  took  a  book  that  the  stranger  held  out  to  her, 
and  gazed  up  into  his  handsome  eyes  with  winning  sweet- 
ness. He  had  spoken  rapidly,  and  Mrs.  Wicks  had  not 
been  able  to  rouse  herself  enough  to  follow  him. 

"What?"  she  said,  stupidly. 

The  sound  of  her  crackling  voice  checked  the  answer- 
ing1 smile  with  which  Wesley  Sparhawk  was  looking 
back  into  the  child's  face,  and  just  then  Bet  came  saun- 
tering in  at  the  door,  adding  another  unpicturesque  ele- 
ment to  the  already  far  from  pleasant  scene. 

"Some  Bibles  and  tracts,"  repeated  the  young  man. 

"Ye  don't  mean  it!"  rejoined  Mrs.  Wicks,  having 
finally  grasped  his  meaning.  "Law!  I've  seen — men 
with  sech  things — colporteurs,  ain't  it?" — extricating  the 
word  from  the  confusion  of  her  memory  with  a  ludicrous 
effort— "but  ye  don't  look  like  that  kind'— ye  don't  reely." 


122  White   Butterflies. 

In  response  to  this  remark,  which  she  evidently  in- 
tended to  be  highly  complimentary,  the  young  man 
looked  down  at  his  clothes,  as  if  with  a  sudden  sense  of 
their  unfitness,  and  blushed  slightly. 

"I'm  not,  exactly,"  he  stammered,  approaching  her 
with  a  tract  in  his  hand,  "but  I  trust  that  you  will  like 
the  books  that  I  leave  with  you  just  as  well." 

Mercy  had  caught  at  the  Testament  which  he  had 
given  Looly,  and  was  looking  at  it  intently. 

"I've  one  just  like  it,"  she  said,  proudly.  "See  here," 
and  she  hastened  to  get  the  well-thumbed  volume  from 
a  shelf  near  by  and  to  exhibit  it. 

"That's  good,"  said  Mr.  Wesley  Sparhawk,  approv- 
ingly, and  noting  the  girl's  glowing  face  and  noble  car- 
riage with  surprised  interest.  "Please  accept  this  Bible;" 
and  he  held  out  to  her  the  most  elegantly  bound  among 
the  half-dozen  books  that  he  carried. 

Her  hand  trembled  with  pleasure  as  she  took  it. 
"Thank  you,"  she  said,  simply;  "I  love  dearly  to  read." 

The  difference  between  the  girl's  language  and  her 
mother's  struck  the  young  man  with  astonishment.  This 
slovenly,  good-looking,  majestic  young  daughter  of  the 
backwoods  interested  him. 

"I  see  you  have  a  good  many  books,"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  the  pile  beside  the  chair  where  she  had  been 
sitting. 

"Yes,"  she  said — "some  new  ones  that  Mr.  Baskins 
sent  us.  Some  of  them  tell  about  housekeeping  and  such 
things.  I've  learned  a  great  deal  from  them,  and  I  mean 
to  read  every  word  in  them.  It's  for  Looly  more  than 
for  the  rest  of  us,"  she  went  on,  in  obedience  to  the  look 
of  inquiry  in  his  face.  "It  doesn't  make  much  difference 
about  Bet  and  me — we're  older — but  I  mean  to  give 


"For   Looly."  123 

Looly  a  chance  to  learn  and  have  things,  and  I  mean 
to  bring  her  up  right.  This  is  Looly."  She  gathered  the 
child  to  her  affectionately.  "I  want  her  to  grow  up  to  be 
a  lady." 

The  terrible  discrepancy  between  her  desires  and  the 
realistic  squalor  of  the  room  seemed  to  strike  the  poor 
girl  with  crushing  force.  Her  self-command  failed  her 
in  her  excitement;  she  put  her  apron  to  her  face,  and  he 
could  see  that  she  was  crying  quietly,  while  Mrs.  Wicks 
began  a  drawling  remonstrance.  The  whole  thing  was 
a  total  mystery  to  her. 

The  young  man  flushed  with  pity.  The  situation  lay 
revealed  before  him,  and  he  felt  an  instinctive  desire  to 
help  this  groping  soul. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  be  away 
several  days,  but  when  I  come  back,  I  shall  stop  again, 
and  leave  you  some  more  books."  He  handed  some 
tracts  to  Bet  as  he  spoke,  and  bidding  them  all  a  cour- 
teous good-morning,  flung  himself  upon  his  horse  and 
rode  away. 

Mercy  rose  and  wiped  her  eyes,  and  as  she  looked 
after  Mr.  Wesley  Sparhawk,  riding  up  the  mountain  side, 
her  heart  gave  a  quick,  determined  throb.  "It  shall  be 
different  when  he  comes  again,"  she  resolved,  and  turn- 
ing back  into  the  unsightly  room,  she  began,  with  a  firm- 
ness of  touch  and  an  energy  of  spirit  not  unlike  that 
which  must  have  characterized  the  great  reformers,  to  in- 
augurate in  her  own  small  sphere  an  era  of  reform. 

An  hour  later  she  sat  over  her  little  sister,  curling 
her  long,  light  hair — Mercy's  pride,  but  hitherto  only 
occasionally  reduced  to  order.  Then  Bet  received  what 
that  young  woman  described  to  her  brothers  later  as  a 
"goin's-over,"  and  afterward  Mercy  herself  underwent 


124  White   Butterflies. 

a  species  of  transformation.  Then,  thoroughly  wearied, 
but  with  a  glow  of  pride  more  fervent  than  any  that  she 
had  ever  known  before,  she  sat  down  to  gaze  about  her, 
and  to  enjoy  the  result  of  her  laboriously  worked-out 
resolution.  Then  she  fell  to  reading. 

That  night  she  lay  long  awake,  pondering  on  what 
she  had  read,  on  the  ways  which  she  might  use  to  bring 
about  certain  needed  reforms,  and  on  the  strange  hap- 
penings of  the  day.  The  thought  of  resentment  toward 
Mr.  Jim  Baskins  had  not  occurred  to  Mercy.  Instead, 
her  soul,  which  had  scarcely  ever  known  a  small  or  a 
selfish  consideration,  was  filled  with  gratitude  to  him. 
She  understood  now  how  it  had  been  something  more 
than  shame  of  their  poverty  which  had  made  her  so 
averse  to  going  anywhere  or  to  having  company,  and 
why  the  better  class  of  their  neighbors  upon  the  moun- 
tain had  seemed  to  slight  and  shun  them.  She  felt  that 
now  she  had  found  the  key  to  better  times  for  Wicks's 
Hollow,  and  her  soul  rejoiced  in  that  consciousness  as 
she  fell  asleep. 

A  few  days  later  Mr.  Jim  Baskins  paid  another  visit 
to  the  locality  which  had  come  to  hold  such  a  fascina- 
tion for  him,  and  he  was  filled  with  an  honest  pleasure 
when  he  saw  signs  of  revolutionary  tendencies  among 
the  residents  in  the  Wicks  cottage  as  he  drew  rein  before 
the  door.  Beside  the  window,  and  showing  unmistak- 
able signs  of  careful  attention  to  her  toilet,  sat  Mercy 
herself,  awkwardly,  but  with  feverish  haste,  sewing  away 
upon  a  piece  of  new  calico. 

"I'm  making  a  dress  for  Looly,"  she  announced,  smil- 
ingly, looking  up  at  him  with  a  tired  and  heated  face 
as  he  entered,  but  not  deigning  to  rise.  "I've  enjoyed 


"For   Looly."  125 

those  books  so  much!  Looly  and  I  have  read  nearly  all 
of  them,  haven't  we,  Looly?" 

The  child  nodded,  and  crept  close  to  her  sister. 

"I'm  very  glad,"  commented  Mr.  Baskins,  with  a  beam- 
ing face.  "I  thought  you'd  like  them.  And  how  nice 
you  look  here!  You  must  be  expecting  a  beau,  I  guess." 

Bet,  who  was  lying  on  a  settee  in  the  corner,  giggled 
at  this,  and  sat  up,  as  though  the  conversation  for  once 
began  to  assume  an  interesting  complexion;  and  Mrs. 
Wicks,  who  was  stationed  by  the  door  in  the  inevitable 
rocking  chair,  and  engaged  in  her  usual  absorbing  oc- 
cupation of  dipping  snuff,  cackled  forth  a  feeble  ex- 
pression of  mirth. 

"Sal  used  ter  have  lots  o'  beaus,"  she  remarked, 
proudly,  and  smiling  a  weak  but  approving  smile  upon 
Mr.  Jim  Baskins,  as  she  thus  endeavored  to  cover  what 
she  considered  to  be  one  of  Mercy's  most  important  de- 
ficiencies. "An'  Bet  seems  ter  please  the  young  fellers 
more'n  Merce  does,"  she  continued.  "Merce  she  cayn't 
abide  'em,  she  says.  I  do'  know — I  sh'd  think —  -"  And 
here  Mrs.  Wicks's  discourse  relapsed  into  a  mumble, 
which  neither  Mr.  Jim  Baskins  nor  any  of  the  others 
present  could  very  well  understand. 

"I  liked  this  book  best,"  said  Mercy,  ignoring  the 
recent  turn  of  the  conversation.  Her  heightened  color 
and  uplifted  head  were  the  only  indications  that  she 
had  heard  what  had  just  been  said.  She  took  up  one  of 
the  books  as  she  spoke,  and  opened  its  leaves  caress- 
ingly, and  though  Mr.  Jim  Baskins  could  not  under- 
stand her  fondness  for  it,  nor  for  any  other  book,  not 
being  a  man  much  addicted  to  reading,  he  sat  down  and 
devoted  his  energies  to  making  himself  agreeable  to  this 
obdurate  young  woman.  She  was  handsome  enough  to 


126  White   Butterflies. 

excite  his  profoundest  admiration  this  afternoon,  and 
in  her  gratitude  to  him  was  uncommonly  complaisant. 
Her  subdued  laugh  rang  out  pleasantly  several  times, 
and  Mr.  Jim  Baskins  had  to  acknowledge  to  himself 
that  he  had  never  heard  a  more  melodious  voice  than 
hers.  It  was  not  until  the  shackly  wagon  and  lean 
horses  of  old  Tom  Wicks  came  rattling  down  into  the 
Hollow  that  Mercy's  visitor  took  any  thought  of  the 
flight  of  time.  She  politely  invited  him  to  stop  to  sup- 
per again,  but  she  did  not  urge  him.  She  had  been 
civil,  and  even  very  pleasant,  to  Mr.  Jim  Baskins,  but 
she  did  not  like  him  very  well,  after  all,  and  she  was 
not  sorry  when  he  declined  her  invitation  with  thanks, 
remounted  his  horse,  and  rode  slowly  away.  To  tell 
the  truth,  Mr.  Jim  Baskins  was  getting  to  be  somewhat 
in  love,  and,  as  the  Marlinsburg  belles  of  that  young 
gentleman's  "circle"  would  have  expressed  it,  "with  one 
of  those" — or  the  belles  might  have  said  "them" — "low- 
down  Wickses  upon  the  mountain." 

It  was  two  or  three  days  after  this  that  another  young 
man  flung  himself  from  his  horse  and  entered  the  Wicks 
cabin.  It  was  Mr.  Wesley  Sparhawk,  who  had  been 
playing,  in  a  rather  awkward  but  quite  honest  fashion, 
the  part  of  a  missionary  toward  the  benighted  moun- 
taineers in  the  region  adjacent  to  his  home.  Young 
Sparhawk  had  not  found  this  improvised  sort  of  "circuit- 
riding"  altogether  productive  of  pleasure,  and  his  face 
was  somewhat  paler  and  his  air  more  subdued  than  when 
he  had  called  before  in  Wicks's  Hollow.  Still,  as  Mr. 
Wesley  Sparhawk  had  a  good  deal  of  "bottom,"  he  was 
not  disheartened.  He  was  only  a  young  man,  accus- 
tomed to  no  harder  labor  than  such  as  pertained  to  the 
care  of  his  toilet  and  to  the  acquisition  of  his  lessons  at 


"  For   Looly."  127 

school  and  at  college,  and  he  had  found  his  long  ride  and 
the  numerous  calls  that  he  had  made  in  his  new  capacity 
excessively  exhausting.  He  had  rather  dreaded  appear- 
ing again  at  the  Wicks  cottage,  for  scarcely  in  all  his  tour 
had  he  encountered  one  so  uninviting.  But  he  remem- 
bered the  tall,  fine-faced  girl  whom  he  had  met  there,  and 
he  felt  a  strong  desire  to  see  her  again,  and  to  learn 
whether  the  protestations  that  she  had  made  so  earnestly 
had  amounted  to  anything. 

Mercy  saw  him  coming,  for,  though  she  would  not 
have  admitted  it  even  to  herself,  she  had  been  watching 
for  him  for  several  days,  and  she  looked  around  her  home 
at  the  various  metamorphoses  which  she  had  accom- 
plished, with  a  flutter  of  pride  and  delight.  It  was  true 
that  Bet  had  hardly  been  able  to  keep  up  with  the  march 
of  civilization  in  Wicks's  Hollow,  and  that  Mrs.  Wicks, 
long  since  past  regeneration,  had  absolutely  refused  to 
submit  to  many  of  Mercy's  regulations.  She  had  even 
roused  herself  to  a  more  violent  exertion  than  for  several 
years  past,  to  denounce  in  unqualified  terms  the  revolu- 
tionary measures  which  undoubtedly  contributed  more 
to  her  immediate  discomfort  than  to  her  pleasure.  There- 
fore she  still  remained  a  blot  of  no  small  proportions  upon 
the  landscape;  but  Mercy  herself  was  fresh  and  neat, 
Looly  was  as  sweet  as  a  daisy,  and  the  cabin  was  as  clean 
as  Mercy's  strong  young  arms  could  make  it. 

Mr.  Wesley  Sparhawk  paused  upon  the  threshold,  and 
surveyed  Mercy's  rejuvenated  domains  with  a  smile  of 
surprised  approval. 

"I  declare  you've  kept  your  word,"  he  said,  and  as  he 
took  her  hand  and  looked  into  her  proud  eyes,  the  blood 
flowed  faster  in  his  veins,  She  felt  a  thousand-fold  re- 


128    .  White   Butterflies. 

paid  for  the  labor  she  had  given,  and  also  a  new  impulse 
to  continue  the  good  work. 

He  came  into  the  cabin  and  sat  down,  laying  beside 
her  chair  a  pile  of  books  and  papers  which  he  had 
brought.  A  book  which  she  had  been  reading  lay  on  the 
window  sill;  it  was  the  book  of  which  she  had  spoken 
in  such  admiring  terms  to  Mr.  Baskins.  He  picked  it 
up  and  turned  the  leaves. 

"This  is  a  nice  story,"  he  said;  "the  only  trouble  with 
it  is  thai  it  ends  in  such  an  improbable  way." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  This  was  icono- 
clastic. 

"I  mean,"  he  explained,  "that  it  was  a  pity  the  hero 
should  have  married  that  girl.  Not  but  that  she  was 
noble  and  all  that,  but  they  had  been  brought  up  so 
differently,  of  course,  they  could  never  be  happy  to- 
gether. It  isn't  in  reason,"  continued  Mr.  Wesley  Spar- 
hawk,  marking  the  intense  concern  which  the  girl  man- 
ifested, and  glad  to  be  able  to  enlighten  her  ignorance. 
"He  had  been  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  elegance,  and 
her  advantages "  He  checked  himself.  He  had  for- 
gotten for  a  moment  the  circumstances  under  which  he 
was  speaking.  "It  was  different  with  her,"  he  concluded, 
lamely. 

"Yes,"  said  Mercy,  in  a  low  voice,  "she  had  been  poor 
always,  and  hadn't  had  any  chance." 

"It  made  a  nice  story,  only  it  couldn't  ever  have  hap- 
pened and  turned  out  well  in  real  life,  you  see.  The 
general  test  to  apply  to  a  painting  or  a  story  or  almost 
anything  is,  Is  it  natural?  Is  it  practical?  If  it  isn't,  it 
isn't  good." 

"Yes,"  said  Mercy,  gravely,  "I  understand."  She  drew 
herself  up  a  little,  Her  pride  had  been  touched,  how 


"  For   Looly."  129 

deeply  she  did  not  know  until  long  afterward.  Her 
large,  toil-stained  hands,  especially  disfigured  by  recent 
unwonted  exertions,  opened  and  closed  convulsively. 
Was  there,  then,  no  chance  that  Looly  should  ever  grow 
up  to  marry  a  different  sort  of  man  from  Sally's  Bill 
and  the  young  men  around  Wicks's  Hollow?  And  a 
dim  little  hope  which,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  crush  it, 
had  dared  to  bloom  for  herself  in  her  innermost  heart, 
seemed  to  be  trodden  down  in  a  moment. 

The  young  man  sat  talking  longer  than  he  had  meant 
to.  He  felt,  without  formulating  his  feelings,  that  he 
had  hurt  the  girl's  self-respect  a  little,  and  he  tried  to 
make  her  forget  it,  by  taking  up  book  after  book  and 
commenting  laughingly  upon  them  all.  And  Mercy  for- 
got everything  else  in  listening  to  him,  until  she  too  be- 
gan to  impart  her  impressions  of  what  she  had  been  read- 
ing; and  her  ideas  were  so  unsophisticated,  so  daring, 
so  original,  her  face  was  so  fair,  and  her  eyes  so  luminous 
while  she  told  of  them,  that,  unawares,  the  young  man 
was  more  charmed  by  her  than  he  would  have  cared 
to  own. 

"I  wish  you  would  go  down  to  Marlinsburg  to  some 
of  the  meetings,"  he  said  at  last.  "You  would  like 
them." 

Mercy  shook  her  head.  "I  wouldn't  go  down  there 
for  anything,"  she  said.  Her  figure  dilated  a  little,  and 
she  held  her  head  a  trifle  higher.  "The  Marlinsburg 
people  look  at  me  so,"  she  added,  "I  can't  stand  it.  I've 
only  a  sun-bonnet  to  wear  and  a  calico  dress,  and  I'm 
never  going  anywhere  again  until  we  get  enough  money 
saved  to  educate  Looly.  It's  too  late  to  do  much  for  me, 
but  I  mean  to  give  her  a  good  chance." 

The  young  man  asked  some  questions  about  this  mat- 
9 


130  White  Butterflies. 

ter,  and  Mercy  told  him  what  she  was  doing,  though 
not  so  fully  as  she  had  told  Mr.  Jim  Baskins. 

"And  your  father  is  saving  this  money  for  Looly?" 

"He  lets  me  save  it,"  she  said,  smilingly. 

The  young  man,  accustomed  as  he  had  always  been 
to  the  luxuries  of  great  wealth,  glanced  pitifully  around 
the  bare  little  dwelling.  To  put  away  money,  needed,  it 
seemed  to  him,  to  supply  the  daily  wants  of  life,  for  such 
a  purpose  as  that  for  which  this  girl  was  hoarding  it, 
struck  him  as  rather  fine — rather  grand.  He  began  to 
admire  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  this  strange  exotic 
among  the  regulation  "poor  white"  growths  of  Wicks's 
Hollow. 

The  clock  struck  six. 

"I  must  go,"  said  the  young  man,  rising  reluctantly: 
"I've  a  fancy  that  you  will  go  to  the  meetings  some 
time,  if  I'll  come  and  get  you,"  he  added,  as  he  rode 
away. 

She  shook  her  head,  but  she  smiled.  She  would  rather 
do  even  that  than  not  to  see  him  again. 

"I  reckon  you  will,"  he  laughed  back  to  her,  and  her 
heart  thrilled  with  intense  regret  as  she  watched  him 
disappear  behind  the  hill.  How  handsome,  how  dis- 
tinguished he  was!  How  inferior  to  him  Mr.  Jim  Bas- 
kins appeared,  as  she  mentally  compared  them!  Yet 
perhaps  she  should  never  see  him  again,  and  her  heart 
gave  a  great  throb  of  pain  as  she  thought,  but  she  did  not 
stop  to  account  for  it. 

It  was  now  nearly  time  for  her  father  to  come  home, 
and  Mercy  hastened  to  kindle  a  fire,  and  to  get  every- 
thing in  readiness  for  his  arrival.  She  had  been  very 
watchful  of  him  and  attentive  to  his  wants  lately,  and 
no  one  had  appreciated  more  warmly,  or  at  least  more 


"For   Looly."  131 

demonstratively,  than  he  the  efforts  which  she  had  been 
making  for  the  elevation  of  the  Wicks  family. 

"Now  ye  don't,  Merce!"  he  had  exclaimed,  when  the 
reforms  had  first  begun  in  earnest.  "Law,  now,  chile, 
ye've  had  all  the  work  to  do  for  years,  now,  an'  I  allers 

thought  ye  more'n  done  yer  juty;  but  now Law, 

Merce,  I'm  right  smart  proud  o'  ye;  I  reely  be!" 

Mercy  loved  her  father  next  to  Looly  of  all  the  family, 
and  his  praise  was  very  sweet  to  her;  and  so  when  the 
hour  drew  on  for  him  to  appear — earlier  than  usual  on 
this  night,  as  it  was  Saturday,  the  day  on  which  Mr. 
Jim  Baskins  had  made  his  first  visit  to  Wicks's  Hollow 
— she  saw  to  it  that  her  father  should  be  well  received. 
A  stern  something  within  the  girl,  something  which 
must  have  descended  to  her  from  some  far-back  Puritan 
ancestor,  was  constantly  warning  her  against  retrogres- 
sion. 

"I'm  going  to  keep  it  up,"  she  had  said  to  herself 
through  shut  teeth,  when  her  mother  and  Bet  had  stood 
like  roaring  lions,  so  to  speak,  in  the  way  of  her  projects 
— "I'm  going  to  keep  it  up,  if  it  kills  me."  But  it  was 
not  going  to  kill  her.  Her  plans  once  matured  and 
system  once  inaugurated,  she  had  an  executive  ability 
and  a  natural  love  of  method  which  were  gradually  de- 
veloping, and  which  made  things  easy  for  her. 

Young  Sparhawk  remembered  his  parting  words  to 
her.  Indeed,  they  and  Mercy  Wicks's  face  had  been  in 
his  mind  a  great  deal  since  he  had  made  such  an  un- 
expectedly long  call  at  Wicks's  Hollow,  and  he  had 
wanted  to  go  and  see  her  again  even  before  he  could  in- 
vent a  reasonable  excuse.  But  he  learned  that  a  camp 
meeting  was  to  be  held  in  a  grove  half-way  between 
Marlinsburg  and  Wicks's  Hollow,  and  he  decided  to 


132  White   Butterflies. 

invite  Mercy  to  attend  it  on  a  certain  afternoon  with  him. 
As  he  mounted  his  buggy  and  took  an  early  start  for  the 
mountain,  he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  the 
camp  meeting  would  offer  a  pleasanter  way  of  keeping 
his  promise  to  Mercy  than  bringing  her  down  to  Mar- 
linsburg,  where  he  was  well  known,  and  where  he  un- 
derstood that  no  amount  of  deference  to  his  acknowl- 
edged desire  to  do  good  would  mitigate  the  fact  that  he 
was,  in  a  small  way,  "waiting  upon"  a  young  woman  in 
just  the  social  position  of  Miss  Mercy  Wicks. 

Mercy,  in  the  meantime,  had  passed  through  a  rather 
harrowing  experience.  Mr.  Jim  Baskins  had  made  her 
another  visit,  and  his  manner  had  been  such  that  Mercy 
had  felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  treat  him  in  a  very 
cavalier,  not  to  say  forbidding,  way.  In  fact,  so  very 
caustic  had  she  been  upon  his  departure  that  Mr.  Jim 
Baskins  had  left  in  high  dudgeon,  and  she  knew  very 
well  that  he  would  never  come  back.  He  had  not  "made 
love"  to  Mercy,  but  her  quick  sense  had  detected  strong 
indications  that  he  was  about  to  do  so,  and  she  had  felt 
that  that  was  something  she  could  not  and  would  not 
allow.  She  had  thought  of  it  since  with  some  misgivings. 
How  kind  Jim  Baskins  had  been  to  give  her  those  books! 
What  a  blessing  they  had  proved  to  her!  Perhaps  she 
had  been  too  rude  to  him;  and  then  perhaps — she  had 
gleaned  this  impression  from  the  stories  that  she  had 
read — perhaps  she  ought  to  give  Mr.  Baskins  back  the 
books  he  had  brought  her.  This  was  much  against 
Mercy's  inclinations,  and  she  did  not  propose  to  do  it 
unless  some  new  revelation  of  her  duty  should  be  made 
to  her. 

When  young  Sparhawk  drove  up  to  the  door,  there- 
fore, Mercy  was  sitting  in  a  deep,  brown  study  by  the 


"For   Looly."  133 

window,  with  her  sewing  lying-  unheeded  in  her  lap; 
but  when  his  eyes  met  hers,  a  tell-tale  glow  overspread 
her  face,  and  she  sprang  up  to  welcome  him.  A  voice 
within  him  chided  him  a  little  as  he  saw  her  brighten- 
ing face.  Were  these  quite  the  circumstances  under 
which  to  do  missionary  work  to  the  best  advantage? 

But  it  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  he  felt  young  and 
happy,  and  he  acknowledged  to  himself  a  very  strong 
desire  to  listen  again  to  this  frank  girl's  pleasant  voice, 
and  to  watch  her  as  she  made  her  odd  comments  upon 
life  and  books. 

But  Mercy  steadfastly  refused  to  go  to  the  meeting 
with  him.  And  when  he  found  there  was  really  no  use 
in  urging  her,  he  asked  her  suddenly  if  she  wouldn't 
drive  a  little  way  with  him. 

Her  face  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  her  heart  beat  so 
fast  that  she  could  scarcely  answer  him. 

"To  drive  with  you?"  she  repeated,  wonderingly.  This 
was  like  the  books  that  she  had  read.  It  was  like  a 
beautiful  dream.  But  she  preserved  outwardly  her  usual 
calm  dignity  of  demeanor  as  she  made  her  preparations, 
and  amid  the  wide-mouthed  but  fortunately  indistinct 
comments  of  her  mother  and  of  Bet,  she  kissed  Looly, 
and  drove  away  with  Wesley  Sparhawk.  Their  road  lay 
through  piney,  shady  woods.  The  girl  threw  off  her 
ugly  sun-bonnet,  and  her  fair  hair  curled  about  her  glow- 
ing face  as  she  talked  gayly  with  him  of  the  books  which 
she  had  read  and  of  the  scenes  through  which  they  had 
been  passing. 

It  was  a  delightful  experience  to  him,  and  like  a  fairy 
hour  to  her,  and  when  he  left  her  at  the  door  of  the 
little  cabin,  he  promised  to  come  again  soon,  and  to  bring 
her  some  books  of  which  he  had  been  telling  her. 


134  White   Butterflies. 

Before  many  days  he  kept  his  word,  and  appeared, 
bearing  the  parcel  of  books  that  he  had  promised.  A 
week  later  he  came  again,  and  another  visit  succeeded. 
By  this  time  the  young  man  owned  to  himself  that  he 
was  the  victim  of  a  violent  passion  for  the  beautiful 
backwoods  girl,  and  Mercy  knew  in  her  secret  heart  that 
she  was  living  but  for  her  lover's  smile,  and  that  the 
days  were  dark  when  he  did  not  come.  Still,  the  young 
man  said  nothing.  So  beautiful  a  dream  should  not  be 
disturbed,  he  reasoned  in  his  blindness. 

One  evening,  after ,  he  had  left  her,  Mercy  watched 
him  out  of  sight,  and  Looly,  who  had  come  quietly  up 
beside  her  as  she  stood  looking  after  him,  twined  her 
arms  around  her  sister,  and  they  walked  gravely  in  to- 
gether. Then  Mercy  moved  silently  about  the  room  pre- 
paring supper.  Her  mother  had  grown  almost  afraid 
of  her,  and  very  respectful,  since  this  fine  young  man 
had  begun  to  come  to  Wicks's  Hollow,  and,  indeed, 
Mercy's  manner,  always  dignified,  had  become  almost 
majestic  during  these  glorified  weeks  which  had  seen 
the  growth  of  this  love  in  her  heart — a  love  such  as  the 
common  souls  by  which  she  was  surrounded  could 
neither  appreciate  nor  understand.  They  had  all  felt  a 
subtle  change  in  her,  even  to  "the  boys,"  but  they  had 
dared  to  say  very  little  to  her,  though  at  Bet,  who  was 
constantly  indulging  in  flirtations  with  the  neighboring 
farmers'  sons,  they  were  always  flinging  taunts  and  in- 
nuendoes. To-night,  however,  when  "Jake"  came,  he 
had  been  drinking  a  little,  and  he  had  met  Wesley  Spar- 
hawk  as  he  had  been  going  home. 

"Fine  beau  ye  have  thar,  Merce,"  he  said,  sulkily,  as 
he  came  in  at  the  door.  "Wonder  'f  he'll  be  too  stuck 
up  ter  speak  to  his  gal's  relations  after  the  weddin'?" 


"For   Looly."  135 

Mercy  turned  on  him  with  flaming  eyes,  and  seemed 
to  grow  perceptibly  taller  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"He's  not  my  'beau!'  "  she  cried,  passionately.  "Don't 
you  ever  say  such  a  thing  as  that  again";  and  the  boy, 
excited  though  he  was  with  drink,  did  not  dare  to  re- 
open his  lips. 

That  night  Mercy  went  early  to  bed,  but  her  brother's 
words  rang  in  her  ears,  and  she  kept  thinking,  over  and 
over  again,  of  the  story  about  which  Wesley  Sparhawk 
had  talked  with  her  weeks  before. 

"He  had  been  brought  up  in  luxury,  and  she — so  dif- 
ferently." "They  could  never  have  been  happy."  "It 
could  never  have  happened  in  real  life." 

As  she  thought,  she  sobbed  and  cried  until,  with  the 
violence  of  her  grief,  although  the  night  had  worn  then 
into  the  small  hours,  she  even  wakened  Looly,  who 
begged  piteously  to  know  why  she  was  weeping.  The 
morning  was  growing  red  in  the  east  before  she  finally 
fell  asleep. 

The  next  day  she  read  the  story  over  again.  Some- 
how lately  she  had  not  thought  much  about  it.  After 
she  finished  reading  it,  she  laid  the  book  down  and 
thought  out  a  sequel  to  it.  Her  quickened  imagination 
devised  a  multitude  of  things  which  a  girl  like  the  one 
in  the  story  might  do  to  shock  and  offend  a  fastidious 
husband.  No;  such  a  thing  could  not  happen  in  real 
life,  as  Wesley  Sparhawk  had  said.  It  ought  not  to 
happen.  People  should  marry  people  something  like 
themselves;  and  as  she  worked  out  the  problem  more 
and  more  clearly  and  convincingly  in  her  mind,  a  little 
poem  which  she  had  read  somewhere,  and  which  had  for 
its  refrain, 

"I  have  dreamed  my  dream, 
I  have  wakened  at  last," 


136  White   Butterflies. 

flitted  through  her  mind  again  and  again  as  she  went 
sternly  about  her  work. 

In  the  afternoon  she  had  usually  sat  down  of  late  to  a 
long,  happy  time  of  sewing,  or  of  reading  with  Looly, 
but  to-day  Mercy  could  not  work.  She  could  only  sit 
and  hold  her  little  sister  and  cry  silently  as  she  kissed 
and  kissed  the  wondering  child's  face.  It  was  only  two 
or  three  nights  before,  that  she  had  made  the  long,  lonely 
journey  up  the  mountain  side  to  deposit  some  more 
money  for  Looly.  The  boys  were  getting  very  impa- 
tient lately  because  so  little  of  their  father's  earnings 
found  its  way  into  their  hands,  and  Mercy  was  inwardly 
fretted  lest  Jim  Baskins  in  his  pique  had  managed  to 
let  them  know  her  secret.  She  had,  therefore,  removed 
the  box  in  which  she  kept  the  money  to  an  altogether 
different  part  of  the  mountain,  and  had  hidden  it  anew. 

"Whatever  happens  to  me,  my  pet,  your  future  shall 
be  sure,"  she  murmured  in  the  child's  ear.  "Mercy  will 
see  to  it  that  her  little  Looly  has  a  chance.  She  shall  have 
everything  that  Mercy  can  get  for  her." 

Then  she  looked  up  and  started,  for  a  horse  was  can- 
tering swiftly  down  the  hill,  and  she  knew  that  Wesley 
Sparhawk  had  come  again. 

He  alighted,  fastened  his  horse,  and  came  toward  her. 
She  looked  very  grave  and  stately,  and  very  cold,  though 
her  lashes  were  wet,  and  she  was  holding  her  little 
sister  to  her  with  desperate  closeness.  When  he  had  left 
her  on  the  evening  before,  she  had  been  all  smiles  and 
warmth.  He  could  not  understand  this  sudden  change. 
He  took  a  seat  beside  her  underneath  the  great  tree 
where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  then  she  released  Looly, 
whispering  in  her  ear,  and  the  child  silently  disappeared, 
leaving  them  alone  together. 


"  For   Looly."  137 


Young  Sparhawk's  face  was  very  pale,  and  his  lips 
trembled,  and  as  soon  as  the  little  girl  had  left  them,  he 
began,  impetuously:  "I  have  come  back  because — be- 
cause I  have  thought  it  over  a  good  many  times,  and  I 
want — I  want,  as  you  say,  Mercy — I  want  to  'give  you 
a  chance.'  You  are  young  yet,  Mercy;  don't  you  want 
to  go  to  school?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  vague  bewilderment.  ''I 
couldn't,"  she  gasped  "Oh,  no;  it's  out  of  the  question. 
There's  Looly,  and  father,  and  Bet,  and  all  of  them,  and 
I  couldn't.  I'm  twenty  now,  and  oh,  I  couldn't  that  way, 
anyway." 

She  stopped,  for  her  voice  began  to  choke.  Her 
sleeplessness  of  the  night  before,  and  the  long  strain 
which  she  had  been  unconsciously  enduring  for  the  last 
few  weeks,  and  which  had  culminated  in  her  terrible 
mental  struggle  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours,  had  left 
her  very  weak.  She  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say, 
and  a  voice  within  her  kept  repeating:  "It  can  never 
be;  it  can  never  be." 

"I've  come,  Mercy,"  he  said,  huskily,  "to  think  every- 
thing of  you,  and  I  believe  you  love  me.  Now  the  only 
thing  you  need  to  make  you  all  that — all  that — is  neces- 
sary is  an — an  education.  I've  plenty  of  money,  Mercy, 
and  two  or  three  years  at  a  good  boarding  school  would 

be  all  that  you  would  need,  and  then,  then "  And 

in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  knew  Bet  to  be  furtively  watch- 
ing him  from  a  convenient  window,  he  seized  Mercy's 
hand  and  drew  closer  beside  her. 

"Don't  you  know,"  she  said,  with  a  great  effort,  and 
in  a  strangely  altered  voice — "don't  you  know  in  the 
story — he  had  been  brought  up  in  luxury,  and  she — it 
had  been  so  different  with  her?" 


140  White   Butterflies. 

It  was  a  raw  and  gusty  day  in  the  following  March, 
when  Mr.  Wesley  Sparhawk,  sitting  in  his  father's  ele- 
gant library  in  Marlinsburg,  was  told  that  a  visitor  wished 
to  see  him,  and  a  moment  later  Mercy  Wicks  was  shown 
into  the  room.  At  first  he  did  not  know  her,  but  she 
quietly  removed  her  woolen  hood,  and  then,  in  spite  of  a 
great  change  which  had  come  over  her  face,  he  recog- 
nized it. 

•"My  God!"  he  cried,  springing  up  and  leading  her  ten- 
derly to  a  seat.  "What  is  it,  Mercy?  What  ails  you? 
Have  you  been  ill?" 

She  nodded  mutely.  Tears  were  trickling  down  her 
face,  and  she  coughed  again  and  again. 

"Ah,  you  have  come  to  tell  me,"  he  cried,  "that  you 
have  changed  your  mind?" 

"No,  no/5  she  said,  unsteadily;  "I  was  right;  I  see  it 
now  more  plainly  than  I  saw  it  before;  but,  oh!  it  was 
very  sweet  to  have  you — love — me!" 

Her  tears  began  to  flow  again,  and  the  young  man, 
overcome  by  the  pathos  of  her  looks  and  of  her  words, 
laid  his  head  in  his  hands  upon  the  table  and  sobbed 
aloud. 

When  she  grew  calmer,  she  drew  a  small  but  heavy 
bag  from  underneath  her  shawl. 

"I  came  to  bring  you  this,"  she  said.  "It's  Looly's 
money,  you  know,  that  I  used  to  keep  on  the  mountain. 
I  went  up  there,  two  or  three  weeks  ago,  and  got  it.  I 
was  growing  so  weak  that  I  knew  I  couldn't  go  again, 
and  I've  brought  it  to  you.  You'll  see  that  it  is  spent  for 
Looly — you'll  see  that  she  has  everything  done  for  her 
that  this  money  can  buy,  won't  you? — for  the  love  that 
you  said  you  had  for  me." 

He  bowed  assent,  and  took  the  money  in  his  hands. 


"For   Looly." 


He  could  not  speak,  but  she  had  grown  quite  calm,  and 
went  on  to  tell  him  about  herself. 

"I've  been  running  down  ever  since  you  saw  me,"  she 
said.  "They  say  it's  quick  consumption,  or  something 
like  that,  and  the  doctor  said  that  it  would  kill  me  to  go 
out  to-day;  but  I  felt  able,  and  I  wanted  you  to  see  to 
this.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  trust  you,  and  you  would  know 
just  what  kind  of  a  lady  I  wanted  Looly  to  be.  If  I'm  to 
die  before  she  is  grown  up,  of  course  it  might  as  well 
be  soon  as  a  little  later.  I  think  Looly'd  better  go  away 
somewhere  before  long.  I've  told  pa,  and  he  has  prom- 
ised to  do  just  as  you  say.  I  rode  down  with  him,  and 
I  know  he's  in  a  hurry  to  go  back,  so  I  reckon  I  hadn't 
better  stay  any  longer,  for  you  understand." 

She  rose  weakly,  and  though  he  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  take  her  home,  she  would  only  let  him  go  with  her 
to  the  place  where  she  was  to  join  her  father. 

"I  declare!"  said  one  street  idler  to  another,  as  he 
saw  them  going  by  together,  "who's  that  Wesley  Spar- 
hawk's  helping  along  with  such  care?  Looks  like  some- 
body out  of  the  backwoods,  and  I  reckon  it  is.  By  the 
way,  I've  heard  he  was  just  smitten  with  a  daughter  of 
that  old  Wicks  that  lives  up  on  the  mountain  in  what 
they  call  'Wicks's  Hollow.'  Heard  that  he  offered  him- 
self to  her,  and  she  wouldn't  have  him;  but  of  course,  that 
couldn't  possibly  be  so." 

"Of  course,"  rejoined  his  companion,  with  an  incredu- 
lous sneer,  as  they  watched  the  strange  pair  out  of  sight. 

A  month  later  Mercy  Wicks  died. 


Tomlin  Dresser's 

Disappearance. 

THE  stage  started  from  Vine  Lake  every  morning  at 
seven.  It  reached  Doremus  about  half-past  nine. 
If  more  housewives  than  usual  stopped  Gale 
Truax,  the  handsome  and  accommodating  driver,  to 
hand  him  a  letter,  or  to  ask  him  to  buy  a  spool  of  silk 
or  a  package  of  bird  food  for  them  in  Doremus — why, 
then  it  was  ten  o'clock,  instead  of  half-past  nine,  when  the 
stage  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  Doremus  post-office. 
Ten  o'clock  was  early  enough,  so  that  Gale  Truax  did 
not  usually  have  to  hurry  the  housewives. 

Tomlin  Dresser's  house  was  ten  miles  from  Vine  Lake, 
on  the  road  to  Doremus.  The  neighborhood  in  which 
he  lived  was  in  the  latter  town,  but  it  was  called  Bashan. 
It  was  in  New  England,  and  not  many  miles  from  a 
famous  college,  though  you  might  not  have  thought  it. 
There  was  more  need  of  missionaries  in  Bashan  than 
there  is  in  some  parts  of  Ceylon  or  of  Uruguay. 

The  Vine  Lake  stage  usually  reached  Tomlin  Dresser's 
about  a  quarter  before  nine.  It  often  stopped  there.  This 
was  not  wholly  because  there  were  so  many  passengers 
or  packages  to  be  left  there,  but  was  partly  because 
Tomlin  Dresser's  young  wife  Rose  had  come  from  Vine 
Lake,  and  had  known  Gale  Truax  for  years,  as  well  as 
many  others  who  resided  there.  Gale  Truax  often  had 
messages  for  Rose  from  these  various  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances. Besides,  Rose  was  much  tied  at  home  with 
142 


Tomlin  Dresser's  Disappearance,  us 

the  care  of  her  housekeeping  and  of  her  pretty  baby,  and 
she  had  often  to  send  to  Doremus  for  little  things  which 
she  wanted,  and  which  Gale  Truax  brought  back  with 
him  when  the  stage  returned,  about  two  in  the  afternoon. 

It  seemed  to  Tomlin  Dresser  one  April  morning,  as 
he  was  ploughing  on  the  slope  about  twenty  rods  back  of 
his  house,  that  Gale  Truax  stopped  too  long  to  talk  with 
Rose. 

"He  seems  to  have  more  nonsense  to  talk  to  my  wife, 
confound  him!"  muttered  Tomlin  Dresser,  "than  he  talks 
to  all  the  girls  in  Doremus." 

Tomlin  had  been  ploughing  for  more  than  two  hours. 
It  occurred  to  him  now  that  he  was  tired.  He  would 
sit  down  and  rest,  and  then  he  could  think. 

Every  one  must  have  noticed  that  the  same  thing  can 
happen,  day  after  day,  for  months,  perhaps  for  years,  with- 
out attracting  attention,  until  suddenly,  without  special 
reason,  one  begins  to  think  about  it  as  if  it  were  very 
new.  This  was  the  way  in  which  Tomlin  Dresser  be- 
gan to  think  about  the  Vine  Lake  stage  stopping  in 
front  of  his  door. 

As  he  sat  on  his  plough  chewing  a  blade  of  grass — 
the  worst  thing  that  Tomlin  ever  chewed — the  sound  of 
Rose's  fresh,  young  laugh  came  floating  up  to  him. 

" that  good-looking  Gale  Truax!"  thought  Tom- 
lin Dresser,  with  unwonted  profanity.  "What's  he  say- 
ing to  my  wife?" 

Presently  he  heard  Gale  Truax  chirrup  to  his  horse, 
and  Rose's  voice  crying  after  him : 

"Now,  Gale,  don't  you  forget — two  yards." 

What  a  sweet  voice  it  was!  Tomlin  Dresser  had 
courted  Rose  for  two  years,  and  he  had  been  married 
to  her  for  two  years  more,  but  the  sound  of  her  voice 


144  White   Butterflies. 

thrilled  him  through  and  through  to  this  day.  He  was 
a  sluggish  man,  too — square-built,  slow-motioned,  slow- 
spoken.  He  was  of  medium  height,  with  straight  black 
hair,  which  was  not  often  cut.  There  was  only  one 
barber  in  Doremus,  and  he  was  generally  busy  when 
Tomlin  could  get  time  to  go  to  him.  Tomlin  hated  to 
wait,  so  he  seldom  went.  Consequently  now  and  usually 
his  hair  was  long  in  his  neck  and  behind  his  ears.  His 
young  beard  was  soft  and  black  around  his  face,  yet 
growing  already  well  up  into  his  cheeks;  his  eyebrows 
were  black  and  straight;  his  eyes  were  black,  and  there 
was  a  defect  in  one  of  them,  which  sometimes  made  him- 
look  cross-eyed,  though  the  general  effect  one  com- 
monly got  from  looking  at  them  was  that  they  were 
steady  and  level.  They  were  very  sombre — almost  too 
intense. 

Tomlin  was  very  strong.  There  was  probably  not  a 
stronger  farmer  than  he  in  all  the  country  around  Dore- 
mus village. 

"I  ought  to  be  strong,"  he  said  to  himself  now,  as  he 
looked  down  on  his  brawny  arms  and  passed  his  left 
hand  over  the  hard  muscles  of  his  right  forearm.  "I'm 
strong,  and  I  ought  to  be.  I've  worked  like  a  dog,  and 
it's  all  been  for  her.  First  I  thought  she  never  was  going 
to  look  at  me.  Then  I  pitched  in  and  earned  my  horse, 
so  that  she  would  sorter  notice  me.  Then  when  I  could 
see  she  was  beginning  to  think  of  me,  and  thinking  I 
might  maybe  amount  to  something  sometime,  I  worked 
harder  yet,  and  earned  a  patch  o'  land.  Then  she  said 
she'd  have  me,  and  I  put  in  and  got  money  enough  to 
build  my  house  and  barn,  and  since  we  got  married  and 
moved  in,  Lord,  how  I've  worked!  And  now  there's 
the  young  one.  I'd  work  myself  to  death  for  them, 


Tomlin  Dresser's  Disappearance.  145 

and  I'll  bet  I'm  a  fool  for  doing  it!  The  neighbors  must 
have  noticed  that  confounded  fool  stopping  here  so  every 
day  or  two,"  pursued  Tomlin  Dresser,  in  his  slow,  sullen 
way,  the  smouldering  fire  within  him  eating  deeper  and 
deeper  into  his  soul.  "Likely  as  not  they're  laughing 
in  their  sleeves  at  me  for  letting  my  wife  flirt  with  that 
good-looking  Gale  Truax.  I've  kinder  seen  it  for  weeks, 
now,  but  I  ain't  thought  about  it  as  I'd  oughter." 

The  sweat  poured  from  him  as  he  reflected.  His  head 
drooped.  He  took  off  his  hat,  and  rubbed  his  forehead 
and  neck  hard  with  his  clean,  red  handkerchief. 

Suddenly  a  voice  spoke  just  beside  him.  Rose  had 
come  up  so  softly  that  he  had  not  heard  her,  and  was 
standing  there  with  the  baby — a  beautiful  baby— per- 
haps nine  or  ten  months  old,  fair  and  blue-eyed  like  its 
mother,  whose  golden  hair,  smoothed  carefully  when  she 
had  twisted  it  into  a  generous  knot  that  morning,  was 
now  in  little  rings  and  curls  all  over  her  shining  head. 
Her  face  was  rosy,  her  eyes  laughing  and  sunny.  She 
looked  as  pretty  and  girlish  and  wilful,  as  she  stood 
gazing  into  her  young  husband's  face,  in  her  loose  calico 
gown,  with  her  plump  baby  on  her  arm,  as  any  ballroom 
belle  that  was  ever  seen. 

Her  eyes  grew  clouded  and  anxious  as  she  gazed  into 
his. 

"What  are  you  sitting  down  for,  Lin?"  she  asked  him. 
"You  sick?" 

"I  was — well — sorter  tired  like,"  stammered  Tomlin 
Dresser. 

"I  saw  you  out  of  the  window,  and  I  didn't  know  but 
you'd  got  hurt  or  something.  Says  I  to  myself,  'Maybe 
the  horse  has  kicked  him/  " 

"No,"  returned  Tomlin  Dresser,  shaking  her  off  as 
10 


146  White   Butterflies. 

she  took  hold  of  his  arm  with  her  free  hand,  and  looked 
searchingly  into  his  face.  "I'm  all  right.  You'd  better 
go  in." 

The  baby  crowed  at  him,  and  stretched  out  his  little 
arms,  but  his  father  did  not  respond  as  he  usually  did. 

"You'd  better  go  in,"  he  repeated,  as  Rose  held  the 
baby  out  toward  him,  expecting  him  to  take  the  child. 
Tomlin  only  nodded  to  him,  and  turned  away. 

"  Twouldn't  hurt  you  to  hold  him  a  minute,"  hinted 
Rose,  pouting. 

"I  ain't  got  time.    Take  him  in.    Get  along." 

Tomlin  turned  and  took  hold  of  his  plough. 

"Why,  Lin  Dresser!"  cried  Rose,  half  in  jest  and  half 
in  earnest.  "I  shouldn't  think  you  liked  us  a  bit — should 
we,  Dick?" 

She  kissed  the  child,  and  pressed  him  close. 
'  "Well,  good-bye,  crosspatch!     I've  got  a  good  mind 
to  let  your  dinner  burn." 

She  made  up  a  playful  face  at  her  husband,  and  walked 
with  a  leisurely  step  toward  the  house. 

"What  ails  him?"  she  thought.  "It  can't  be  money 
matters.  He  said  he  wasn't  sick.  What  is  it?  Maybe 
— maybe — "  and  Rose  remembered,  with  a  blush,  Gale 
Truax,  and  what  a  jolly  talk  they  had  had  together  at  the 
gate.  Rose's  father  and  mother  had  died  in  Vine  Lake 
when  she  was  a  little  girl.  She  had  never  had  brothers 
nor  sisters;  but  she  had  cousins  still  living  there,  and 
one  of  them  was  going  to  be  married  soon.  Gale  Truax 
had  been  telling  her  all  about  it.  "Very  well,  if  Tomlin 
Dresser  is  going  to  act  that  way,"  thought  his  spirited 
little  wife,  "I'll— I'll— well— I'll  teach  him  that  he  needn't 
be  so  cross  to  baby  and  me." 

She  kissed  the  baby,  and  sat  down  to  rock  him  to  sleep. 


Tomlin  Dresser's  Disappearance.  147 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  Her  husband  had  never 
looked  at  her  before  just  as  he  had  looked  at  her  that 
morning.  The  recollection  of  it  made  her  hot  and  angry. 
Then  the  defect  in  his  eye — it  had  never  seemed  so  glar- 
ing to  her  as  it  had  that  morning;  it  made  him  look 
fierce  and  ugly,  somehow.  A  sort  of  a  foreboding  of  evil 
shadowed  the  girl's  bright  young  spirit.  She  had  never 
rocked  her  baby  to  sleep  before  without  singing  to  him, 
but  to-day  she  could  not  warble  so  much  as  a  note. 

In  spite  of  her  defiant  feelings,  Rose  did  not  burn  her 
husband's  dinner.  Instead,  she  cooked  it  even  more  care- 
fully than  usual.  The  baby  had  a  long  nap,  and  while  he 
was  asleep,  Rose  tidied  her  house  up  to  the  last  point  of 
neatness. 

When  the  stage  came  along  after  dinner,  Gale  Truax 
stopped  and  held  out  Rose's  parcel.  Rose  had  wavered 
between  thinking  that  she  would  talk  with  him  a  good 
while,  and  that  she  would  just  thank  him  coolly  and  let 
him  go  right  on.  What  she  finally  did  was  to  run  out 
and  get  the  parcel,  take  it  merrily,  and  talk  until  she 
heard  pretty  much  all  of  the  Doremus  news.  She  laughed 
a  great  deal,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  looking  very 
flushed  and  pretty,  for  Gale  Truax  regarded  her  with 
unmistakable  admiration.  When  she  turned  at  last  to 
go  into  the  house,  sha  found  that  she  had  been  talking 
out  at  the  gate  for  quite  half  an  hour.  There  had  been 
no  passengers,  as  was  often  the  case,  and  Gale  could 
easily  make  up  lost  time. 

"I  don't  care,"  thought  pretty  Rose  Dresser,  tossing 
her  head;  "he  needn't  be  so  cross."  But  in  her  heart 
she  yearned  over  the  dark-browed  young  fellow  following 
his  horse  through  the  toilsome  furrows.  In  her  secret 
soul  she  believed  that  no  other  woman  had  ever  been 


148  White   Butterflies. 

loved  as  she  was  loved  by  her  husband.  Rose  was  modest 
enough  about  it.  It  was  not,  she  had  hundreds  of  times 
said  to  herself,  because  she  was  so  much  more  charm- 
ing than  other  girls,  but  because  no  other  man  whom 
she  had  ever  seen  or  imagined  was  capable  of  loving  so 
ardently  and  so  evenly  and  so  long  as  Tomlin  Dresser. 
The  sustained,  unfaltering  power  of  his  will,  the  awful 
self-obliterating  humility  of  his  love — though  poor  Rose, 
who  had  little  enough  education,  could  not  have  analyzed 
it — frightened  her  whenever  she  thought  of  it  soberly. 
Now  she  could  not  help  a  tremulous  fear  within  her. 
If  Tomlin  Dresser  really  were  jealous,  what  might  he 
not  do? 

Supper  time  came.  The  baby  was  very  gleeful,  and 
Rose  played  with  him,  with  a  good  deal  of  noise  and 
demonstration,  but  Tomlin  paid  little  heed  to  it  all.  Not 
once  did  the  dark  look  on  his  brow  lighten.  His  eyes 
were  duller  and  smaller  and  more  sullen  than  Rose 
had  ever  seen  them  before.  But  she  sang  about  the 
house  as  though  everything  were  as  usual,  got  the  baby 
to  sleep,  and  then  sat  down  beside  the  lamp  and  sewed. 

Tomlin  Dresser  took  up  a  newspaper  and  read  it  for 
a  while.  Then  he  dropped  it  and  looked  into  the  fire; 
for  the  evening  had  come  on  chilly,  and  they  were  glad  to 
gather  around  the  kitchen  stove,  through  the  open  grate 
of  which  the  coals  showed  cheerily. 

After  a  little  he  rose  and  began  to  pace  slowly  about 
the  room.  His  wife  was  humming  some  rattling  revival 
melody.  At  last  she  said: 

"Lin,  you  make  me  as  nervous  as  a  fish,  walking 
around  so.  You're  awfully  poky  to-night.  Why  don't 
you  sit  down  and  keep  still?" 


Tomlin  Dresser's  Disappearance   149 

"I'll  go  out  if  I  disturb  you,"  he  said,  huskily,  and  tak- 
ing up  his  hat,  he  strolled  out  into  the  night. 

There  was  a  bright  moon,  almost  full,  and  he  roamed 
around  in  its  light  for  an  hour  or  more,  first  out  into  the 
barn,  where  the  horse  and  the  cow  were  naturally  sur- 
prised to  see  their  master  at  such  an  hour,  and  then 
into  the  field  where  he  had  been  ploughing  during  the 
day.  It  has  often  been  remarked  that  things  put  on  a 
very  different  look  in  the  moonlight  from  that  which 
they  assume  in  any  other.  Now,  as  Tomlin  Dresser 
wandered  aimlessly  about,  his  whole  life  looked  to  him 
very  different  from  what  it  had  ever  looked  before. 

When  at  last  he  went  in  and  sought  his  bed,  he  found 
Rose  and  the  baby  fast  asleep.  He  locked  the  doors 
softly,  and  lay  down  quietly  in  his  place.  The  moon- 
light made  the  room  almost  as  light  as  day.  He  could 
plainly  see  Rose's  pretty  face  as  she  slept. 

For  hours  he  lay  there  wide  awake.  The  moon  sank 
low,  and  still  he  could  not  sleep.  The  slow  devouring 
fire  within  him  was  burning  more  and  more  fiercely. 

"She's  sick  of  me,"  he  was  saying  over  to  himself, 
in  his  sure,  deliberate  way.  "She's  sick  of  me.  At 
first  she  was  contented  with  a  hard-working  man,  who 
didn't  care  for  any  other  women,  and  never  had.  She 
was  satisfied  with  me  and  Dick;  but  she's  getting  sick 
of  me,  I  can  see.  She'd  rather  have  that  Gale  Truax, 
with  his  curly  mustache,  and  his  'Excuse  me,'  and  all  his 
palaver." 

Tomlin  Dresser  anathematized  the  handsome  stage- 
driver,  with  hot,  reiterated  imprecations. 

"Well,"  he  went  on  once  more,  in  the  same  train  of  sim- 
ple reasoning  over  which  he  was  going  again  and  again — 
"well,  if  she  wants  him,  I  want  her  to  have  him;  I  want 


150  White   Butterflies. 

her  to  have  what  she  likes.  If  I  was  out  of  the  way, 
maybe  she'd  have  him." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Tomlin  Dresser,  in  the  anguish  of 
his  soul,  that  the  course  of  reasoning  which  he  had 
adopted  might  do  his  wife  an  injustice.  He  did  not 
think  of  the  lack  of  character,  of  stability  of  purpose, 
which  he  was  unconsciously  attributing  to  her. 

In  his  simple,  unsophisticated  mind  she  had  always 
stood  unquestioned,  like  a  goddess.  Now  she  stood 
unquestioned  still.  She  had  talked  with  Gale  Truax  in  a 
way  which  showed  plainly  to  her  husband  that  she  loved 
the  handsome  stage-driver — the  Adonis  both  of  Vine 
Lake  and  Doremus.  He  was  glad  enough  to  have  her 
smile  upon  him,  of  course.  Any  man  would  be,  thought 
Tomlin,  bitterly. 

She  was  not  to  blame,  as  he  saw  the  matter  now;  at 
least  he  did  not  blame  her,  though  he  heaped  fresh 
maledictions  every  hour  upon  the  head  of  the  dapper 
youth  who  had  stepped  between  them. 

When  Tomlin  rose  in  the  morning,  he  was  unrefreshed, 
He  ate  his  breakfast  in  silence,  and  went  out  again  to  his 
work.  He  had  planned  to  go  off  to  a  distant  lot  to-day, 
for  he  had  ploughed  as  far  as  he  meant  to  this  year  on  the 
hillside.  When  he  was  ready,  however,  he  could  not 
bear  to  leave  the  vicinity  of  the  house.  He  had  a  horrible 
desire  to  see  whether  the  stage  stopped  again.  There 
was  a  little  more  planting  that  he  might  do  in  the  garden. 
He  would  do  it  to-day. 

The  stage  came  along  early.  It  stopped.  Rose  went 
out  to  the  gate  with  the  baby  on  her  arm.  Again  there 
was  a  merry  dialogue  between  her  and  Gale  Truax,  and 
again  she  gave  him  an  errand  to  do  for  her  in  the 
village, 


Tomlin  Dresser's  Disappearance,  isi 

Tomlin  Dresser  ate  his  dinner  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream. 
He  did  not  speak.  Rose  was  saucy  and  indifferent.  The 
stage  stopped  again  at  two  o'clock,  and  Gale  Truax  gave 
her  a  parcel. 

When  Tomlin  came  in  to  supper,  Rose  showed  him  a 
little  fancy  bon-bon  basket. 

"See  here,"  she  said,  with  a  fresh  desire  to  torment 
him;  "Gale  brought  this  to  Dick  from  Doremus.  He 
said  that  I  could  have  some  of  the  candy  if  I  wanted  to. 
Of  course,  he  knew  I  wouldn't  let  Dick  eat  it.  Wasn't 
he  good?  My  husband,  maybe,  doesn't  care  to  speak  to 
me;  but  luckily  everybody  doesn't  dislike  me  so  much." 

She  tossed  her  head,  ate  some  of  the  candy,  and  threw 
a  piece  of  it  toward  Tomlin.  He  let  it  fall  to  the  floor. 
Then  he  picked  it  up — it  would  save  her  trouble 
for  him  to  pick  it  up — and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  His 
sombre  eyes  were  more  lightless  and  wretched  than  she 
had  ever  seen  them.  Besides,  he  looked  very  cross-eyed. 

Rose  went  on  mechanically  with  a  song  which  she 
had  begun.  Now  and  then  she  stopped  in  a  conspicuous 
way  to  enjoy  her  candy. 

About  nine  o'clock  she  yawned,  and  remarked  that 
the  baby  was  "a  good  deal  better  company  than  some- 
body else  that  she  might  mention."  Then  she  went  off 
to  bed,  and  was  soon  asleep.  Tomlin  Dresser  sat  moodily 
before  the  fire,  or  paced  up  and  down  the  clean  and  pleas- 
ant kitchen.  He  was  filled  with  only  one  thought  now. 
He  wanted  to  get  away — to  get  away  from  Rose  and 
Gale  Truax  and  Doremus,  and  all  the  people  whom  he 
had  ever  seen.  Everything  seemed  warped  and  unnatural 
to  him.  He  felt  as  though  he  were  crazy.  Perhaps  he 
was. 

At  last  he  took  ink  and  a  pen  from  a  shelf,  and  found  a 


150  White   Butterflies. 

her  to  have  what  she  likes.  If  I  was  out  of  the  way, 
maybe  she'd  have  him." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Tomlin  Dresser,  in  the  anguish  of 
his  soul,  that  the  course  of  reasoning  which  he  had 
adopted  might  do  his  wife  an  injustice.  He  did  not 
think  of  the  lack  of  character,  of  stability  of  purpose, 
which  he  was  unconsciously  attributing  to  her. 

In  his  simple,  unsophisticated  mind  she  had  always 
stood  unquestioned,  like  a  goddess.  Now  she  stood 
unquestioned  still.  She  had  talked  with  Gale  Truax  in  a 
way  which  showed  plainly  to  her  husband  that  she  loved 
the  handsome  stage-driver — the  Adonis  both  of  Vine 
Lake  and  Doremus.  He  was  glad  enough  to  have  her 
smile  upon  him,  of  course.  Any  man  would  be,  thought 
Tomlin,  bitterly. 

She  was  not  to  blame,  as  he  saw  the  matter  now;  at 
least  he  did  not  blame  her,  though  he  heaped  fresh 
maledictions  every  hour  upon  the  head  of  the  dapper 
youth  who  had  stepped  between  them. 

When  Tomlin  rose  in  the  morning,  he  was  unrefreshed, 
He  ate  his  breakfast  in  silence,  and  went  out  again  to  his 
work.  He  had  planned  to  go  off  to  a  distant  lot  to-day, 
for  he  had  ploughed  as  far  as  he  meant  to  this  year  on  the 
hillside.  When  he  was  ready,  however,  he  could  not 
bear  to  leave  the  vicinity  of  the  house.  He  had  a  horrible 
desire  to  see  whether  the  stage  stopped  again.  There 
was  a  little  more  planting  that  he  might  do  in  the  garden. 
He  would  do  it  to-day. 

The  stage  came  along  early.  It  stopped.  Rose  went 
out  to  the  gate  with  the  baby  on  her  arm.  Again  there 
was  a  merry  dialogue  between  her  and  Gale  Truax,  and 
again  she  gave  him  an  errand  to  do  for  her  in  the 
village, 


Tomlin  Dresser's  Disappearance,  isi 

Tomlin  Dresser  ate  his  dinner  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream. 
He  did  not  speak.  Rose  was  saucy  and  indifferent.  The 
stage  stopped  again  at  two  o'clock,  and  Gale  Truax  gave 
her  a  parcel. 

When  Tomlin  came  in  to  supper,  Rose  showed  him  a 
little  fancy  bon-bon  basket. 

"See  here,"  she  said,  with  a  fresh  desire  to  torment 
him;  "Gale  brought  this  to  Dick  from  Doremus.  He 
said  that  I  could  have  some  of  the  candy  if  I  wanted  to. 
Of  course,  he  knew  I  wouldn't  let  Dick  eat  it.  Wasn't 
he  good?  My  husband,  maybe,  doesn't  care  to  speak  to 
me;  but  luckily  everybody  doesn't  dislike  me  so  much." 

She  tossed  her  head,  ate  some  of  the  candy,  and  threw 
a  piece  of  it  toward  Tomlin.  He  let  it  fall  to  the  floor. 
Then  he  picked  it  up — it  would  save  her  trouble 
for  him  to  pick  it  up — and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  His 
sombre  eyes  were  more  lightless  and  wretched  than  she 
had  ever  seen  them.  Besides,  he  looked  very  cross-eyed. 

Rose  went  on  mechanically  with  a  song  which  she 
had  begun.  Now  and  then  she  stopped  in  a  conspicuous 
way  to  enjoy  her  candy. 

About  nine  o'clock  she  yawned,  and  remarked  that 
the  baby  was  "a  good  deal  better  company  than  some- 
body else  that  she  might  mention."  Then  she  went  off 
to  bed,  and  was  soon  asleep.  Tomlin  Dresser  sat  moodily 
before  the  fire,  or  paced  up  and  down  the  clean  and  pleas- 
ant kitchen.  He  was  filled  with  only  one  thought  now. 
He  wanted  to  get  away — to  get  away  from  Rose  and 
Gale  Truax  and  Doremus,  and  all  the  people  whom  he 
had  ever  seen.  Everything  seemed  warped  and  unnatural 
to  him.  He  felt  as  though  he  were  crazy.  Perhaps  he 
was. 

At  last  he  took  ink  and  a  pen  from  a  shelf,  and  found  a 


152  White  Butterflies. 

sheet  of  paper  in  a  table  drawer.  Tomlin  was  not  a  ready 
writer,  but  he  had  composed  before  long  a  legible  if  not 
an  elegant  letter.  It  said: 

"Dear  Rose:  I  am  going  away.  I  shall  probably 
never  come  back.  There  is  money  in  the  bank.  The 
book  is  in  my  desk  in  the  parlor.  Use  it  all  you  want. 
There  is  a  little  more  ploughing  and  planting  to  do.  You 
will  have  to  get  somebody  to  do  it.  I  can't.  Good-bye. 
I  want  you  to  have  a  good  time.  Lin." 

Not  a  word  about  the  baby.  What  did  he  care  about 
the  baby?  His  heart,  his  mind,  his  whole  being,  were 
full  of  Rose,  only  Rose.  He  went  into  the  bedroom,  and 
looked  at  her  asleep  in  the  moonlight.  Her  baby  lay 
upon  her  breast.  Tomlin  Dresser's  powerful  frame  was 
shaking  like  a  cluster  of  green  hop  blooms  in  the  August 
breeze.  His  heart  hammered,  hammered  against  his 
ribs  with  a  force  which  seemed  to  him  greater  than  the 
force  of  his  strong  right  arm,  but  he  managed  to  creep 
out  again  into  the  kitchen.  Then  he  looked  into  his 
pocketbook  to  see  if  he  had  money  enough;  brought  a 
valise,  and  tumbled  a  few  things  into  it;  got  his  hat,  put 
out  the  light,  and  stole  softly  away  from  the  house 
through  the  woodshed. 

He  had  calculated  to  catch  the  midnight  train  to  Bos- 
ton, and  he  reached  the  Doremus  station  just  as  it  was 
coming  into  view  around  a  curve  half  a  mile  away.  The 
next  morning  he  was  in  Boston. 

In  the  morning  paper  he  read  that  a  number  of  men 
were  wanted  to  ship  ice  to  New  York  from  some  place  in. 
Maine.  He  went  up  there,  was  employed,  and  worked 
hard  all  summer.  Other  men  were  discharged,  but  Tom- 


Tomlin  Dresser's  Disappearance.  153 

lin  was  kept.  He  did  the  work  of  two  men,  the  "boss" 
said.  When  the  ice  job  was  finished,  he  was  put  to 
work  on  lumber. 

The  winter  came  on,  and  Tomlin  went  up  into  the  woods 
chopping.  He  seldom  spoke,  and  he  acquired  the  nick- 
name of  "Tomfool"  among  his  mates,  with  whom  he 
would  not  drink  and  carouse.  He  had  a  long  pipe, 
which,  when  work  was  over,  every  day,  he  smoked, 
smoked,  smoked,  until  he  went  to  bed.  All  through  the 
summer  and  winter  he  was  in  a  dazed  and  bewildered 
frame  of  mind.  He  worked  unceasingly,  so  that  each  night 
he  was  utterly  exhausted.  He  felt  as  though  he  had 
turned  into  a  machine. 

April  came  around  again.  It  found  Tomlin  Dresser 
up  at  the  headwaters  of  a  great  Maine  river,  sending  off 
rafts  of  logs. 

One  day  it  was  soft  and  balmy,  and  he  began  to  feel 
as  he  had  not  felt  for  months.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
though  his  head  had  been  sealed  up  with  sealing-wax, 
and  that  suddenly  the  sealing-wax  had  been  broken  and 
his  head  was  free.  Pictures  presented  themselves  before 
him  'incessantly  of  his  distant  home  upon  the  hillside. 
He  seemed  to  see  his  wife  moving  about  the  plain  rooms 
which  he  had  taken  such  pleasure  in  planning  conven- 
iently and  comfortably  for  her.  He  had  had  no  clear 
vision  of  her  in  his  mind  before  since  he  had  left  Dore- 
mus.  Oh,  how  pretty  she  was!  How  red  her  lips  were! 
How  merry  her  eyes!  Instinctively  he  put  out  his  arms 
to  gather  her  into  them,  and  he  groaned  aloud  when  they 
closed  upon  the  empty  air.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  baby 
crowing  and  laughing.  What  a  bright  baby  it  was !  Oh, 
what  an  interminable  age  it  had  been  since  he  had  seen 
them!  How  could  he  have  staid  away  so  long! 


164  White  Butterflies. 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  told  himself,  bewildered.  "It  is  be- 
cause Rose  does  not  love  me  any  longer.  She  loves 
somebody  else,  and  perhaps  she  has  gone  to  live  with 
him." 

"What!"  cried  an  awakened  voice  within  him!  "Rose 
live  with  somebody  else !  You  insult  her.  Rose  is  a  good 
girl.  She  is  married  to  you,  and  she  will  stick  to 
you." 

"Why,"  he  asked  of  this  voice,  "do  you  think  that  she 
loves  me  now?" 

"Of  course  she  does,"  answered  the  awakened  voice. 
"She  is  true  and  good.  She  promised  to  love,  honor  and 
obey.  Rose  isn't  the  girl  to  go  back  on  her  promise. 
She  isn't  like  some  of  those  creatures  who  live  on  the 
edge  of  Bashan,  and  who  have  the  finger  of  scorn  pointed 
at  them  by  every  honest  man  and  woman.  You  wrong 
her  cruelly." 

"But  she  did  not  laugh  and  talk  with  me  for  many  a 
long  day  as  she  laughed  and  talked  with  Gale  Truax 
at  the  gate;  ay,  and  she  laughed  and  talked  with  him  for 
weeks  nearly  every  day." 

"Oh,  she  is  young  and  light-hearted,"  admitted  the 
awakened  voice.  "Perhaps  you  were  not  quite  tender 
enough  toward  her,  and  perhaps  she  liked  to  see  how 
jealous  she  could  make  you.  Perhaps  you  were  really 
morose  and  ugly  to  her.  Didn't  she  keep  your  little 
house  beautifully  neat  for  you?  Wasn't  she  a  dutiful  wife 
to  you?  Couldn't  you  have  overlooked  a  little  folly  on 
her  part,  and  wouldn't  she  have  come  around  all  right  if 
you  had  only  shown  her  that  you  trusted  her  fully?  What 
a  brute  you  were  to  go  off  and  leave  her  to  shift  for 
herself!" 

This  involuntary  interview  had  the  effect  upon  Tomlin 


Tomlin  Dresser's  Disappearance.  iss 

Dresser  of  a  vivid,  awful  dream.  He  had  come  to  him- 
self at  last.  It  is  said  that  overweening  love  unhinges  a 
man;  Tomlin  Dresser  had  perhaps  loved  his  wife  too  in- 
tensely. At  any  rate,  he  felt  now  as  though  he  were  just 
regaining  his  common  sense,  after  having  been  without 
ir  for  a  long  time.  In  a  tremor  of  agitation,  he  rushed  at 
once  to  throw  up  his  place,  and  two  days  later  he  reached 
Doremus  by  an  evening  train. 

He  skulked  off  from  his  car  on  the  side  opposite  the 
station,  leaped  a  fence,  and  was  almost  out  of  sight  before 
the  train  passed  on.  A  little  way  from  his  home  he  over- 
took two  men  in  a  wagon — old  neighbors  of  his.  Their 
talk  sounded  loud  in  the  calm  moonlit  night.  Tomlin 
hurried  to  come  nearer,  though  he  kept  close  in  the 
shade  of  the  bushes  by  the  roadside. 

"I  never  could  understand  Tomlin  Dresser's  going 
off  so,"  remarked  one  of  them,  an  elderly  man.  "Some 
think  he  was  crazy." 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  other,  a  young  fellow, 
shaking  his  head.  "Some  think  there  was  foul  play 
there." 

"Oh,  but  he  wrote  his  wife  a  letter!" 
"Do  you  know  that  he  wrote  his  wife  a  letter?" 
"Know?    I  know  I've  heard  it  all  around." 
"I  don't  believe  he  ever  wrote  her  any  letter.     She's 
that  proud  she  won't  tell  anything,  and  nobody  knows 
anything  for  sure.     I've  heard  that  she  thinks  he  was  a 
little  mite  off  his  head." 

"Maybe.  Anyhow  she's  showed  pluck,  if  ever  a  wom- 
an did." 

"Well,  she  had  to.  It  was  pretty  mean  in  Tomlin 
Dresser  to  go  off  so,  if  he  did  know  what  he  was  about. 
She  didn!t  have  any  home  to  go  to,  as  some  women 


156  White  Butterflies. 

have,  so  she  just  made  up  her  mind  to  keep  this  one. 
They  say  she  is  out  in  all  weathers,  raking  and  hoeing 
and  planting,  and  what  not;  takes  care  of  the  horse  and 
cow  pretty  much  herself;  nobody  to  help  her  most  of  the 
time  but  that  great  hulking  boy,  that  cousin  of  hers  from 
Vine  Lake,  and  he's  no  good — a  simpleton  if  ever  there 
was  one.  She  does  all  of  the  head-work,  and  a  good  share 
of  the  hand-work.  Rose  is  clever,  but  it's  hard  on  her. 
She  looks  a  sight  older  than  she  did  a  year  ago.  They 
say  she's  running  down  all  the  time.  The  doctor  says, 
I've  heard,  that  she's  going  into  a  decline  if  something 
doesn't  happen  pretty  quick.  They  say  she  expects  him 
home  again  some  time." 

"Sho!  Just  like  a  woman.  If  Tomlin  Dresser'd  been 
a-coming,  he'd  have  come  long  before  this  time.  I  don't 
believe  he'll  ever  show  his  face  in  this  part  of  the  country, 
nor  anywhere  else.  I  believe  he's  dead." 

The  other  man  began  to  rake  up  remarkable  instances 
of  which  he  had  heard  of  men  who  had  returned  after 
mysterious  disappearances,  and  Tomlin  gradually  fell 
away  behind  them.  About  half  a  mile  from  his  home  he 
left  the  main  road  for  a  short  cut  which  he  knew  well. 
In  a  few  moments  he  was  beside  the  little  house. 

It  was  about  half-past  eight.  The  curtain  of  the  kitchen 
window  was  up,  and  Tomlin  looked  in. 

The  "hulking  boy"  was  mending  a  farm  tool  on  one 
side  of  the  table,  and  Rose,  with  her  lap  full  of  sewing, 
was  sitting  on  the  other  side.  She  had  dropped  her  work, 
and  her  head  was  resting  upon  her  arms  on  the  table. 
With  a  little  stamp  and  shuffle  upon  the  mat  opposite  the 
door,  such  as  he  always  used  to  give,  he  lifted  the  latch 
and  walked  unsteadily  in.  Rose  started  up  with  a  little 
shriek,  and  her  work  fell  in  a  heap  to  the  floor. 


Tomlin  Dresser's  Disappearance.  157 

"Oh,  Lin!"  she  cried,  and  then  she  threw  herself  into 
the  strong  arms  which  he  opened  to  receive  her. 

He  raised  her  from  her  feet  as  though  she  had  been  a 
child.  His  heart  smote  him  afresh  when  he  felt  her  weight 
to  be  so  light.  He  bore  her  into  the  little  bedroom,  laid 
her  gently  on  the  bed,  and  coyered  her  face  with  kisses. 

"Oh,  Lin!"  she  began,  fast  and  pleadingly;  "I  want  to 
tell  you  that  I  am  ashamed.  I  just  talked  with  Gale 
Truax,  first,  because  I  didn't  think,  and  then  to  tease 
you.  I  ought  to  have  known  better.  I  wouldn't  do  such 
a  thing  now.  I'm  older,  you  see,  and  wiser  than  I  used 
to  be.  I  haven't  spoken  to  him  since  you  went  away. 
I  couldn't  bear  to  see  him  any  more.  Oh,  Lin,  wasn't 
it  that  that  made  you  go  off  so?  I  haven't  used  all  the 
money.  I  tried  to  make  it  go  as  far  as  I  could.  I  was 
afraid  you  would  not  come  back.  Oh,  Lin,  it  has  nearly 
killed  me!" 

"I  guess  I  was  sorter  crazy-like,"  answered  Tomlin 
Dresser,  swallowing  hard.  "I  thought  you  didn't  like  me 
any  more,  and  it  made  me  feel — queer.  Don't  say  any 
more  about  it,  Rose.  We'll  act  as  if  it  hadn't  ever  hap- 
pened." 

"Yes,  we  will,"  she  agreed,  still  clinging  to  him  fondly, 
repentantly. 

Tomlin  Dresser  went  to  the  closet,  hung  up  his  coat 
there,  and  took  down  an  old  one  which  he  used  to  wear. 
It  was  hanging  in  its  old  place.  He  put  it  on.  He  seemed 
to  hang  away  the  ice  and  the  lumber  of  Maine  with  his 
coat. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  speaking  to  Rose,  who  was  stooping 
over  the  boy,  pink  and  beautiful  as  ever,  in  his  old  place 
on  the  bed — "I  see  that  hill  patch  ain't  ploughed  yet. 
I'll  go  right  to  work  on  it  in  the  morning." 


Daffodils. 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  EASTER  SUNDAY. 

RE  there  always  just  two  daffodil  buds  in  that 
bunch  under  the  east  window,  Aunt  Justinia?" 
Miss  Romaine  Goddard  stood  pensively  look- 
ing down  in  the  yellow  glow  of  the  soft  March  weather 
at  two  daffodil  buds,  which  had  just  revealed  themselves 
above  the  warm,  brown  earth  among  a  cluster  of  tiny, 
barren  leaves. 

"Oh,  no,"  responded  Miss  Justinia  Goddard,  a  little 
argumentatively,  as  though  her  daffodils  had  been 
maligned.  "Sometimes  there  are  a  good  many.  Then 
again  there  aren't  any,  and  I  think  the  plant  may  die; 
but  it  doesn't.  It  always  comes  up  somehow." 

"There  were  just  two  buds  on  it  when  I  was  here 
before." 

Miss  Romaine  looked  dreamily  off  into  the  distance. 

"How  you  do  remember,  Romaine!"  exclaimed  her 
aunt,  staring  at  her.  "It  is  fifteen  years  this  month  since 
you  were  here  before.  Why,  I  can't  even  remember  how 
many  buds  there  were  under  this  window  last  year.  It  is 
my  sewing  window,  too." 

"The  buds  were  blasted  that  year,  I  recollect.  They 
never  came  to  anything,"  her  niece  added,  a  little  under 
her  breath.  "But  what  is  that  noise?"  she  exclaimed,  in 
a  different  tone.  "Poor  little  Le  Roy!  Something  has 
happened  to  him." 

A  boy  of  perhaps  eight  or  nine  came  slowly  around  the 
ZJ6 


Daffodils.  159 

corner  of  the  old  house  as  she  spoke.  He  was  weeping 
profusely,  and  shrieking  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

"I  presume  he  has  had  some  trouble  about  a  postage- 
stamp,"  suggested  Miss  Justinia,  not  unkindly,  but  with 
perfect  composure. 

"I've — lost — my — new — Guatemala — stamp,"  sobbed 
Le  Roy. 

"There!  I  told  you  so!"  ejaculated  Miss  Justinia.  "If 
Le  Roy  Goddard  cries,  or  if  he  laughs,  there's  always  a 
postage-stamp  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

Le  Roy  went  on  to  detail,  in  the  pauses  between  his 
heart-broken  wails,  exactly  how  he  had  lost  the  stamp. 
He  ended  by  implying  that  the  only  way  of  quieting  him 
was  a  financial  one,  as  his  special  friend,  Guy  Rice,  "down 
by  the  village,"  had  a  Guatemala  stamp  at  his  disposal, 
but  charged  an  exorbitant  price  for  it,  refusing  to  "trade." 

"I  cannot  give  you  any  more  money  to  buy  stamps 
with,"  said  his  aunt,  severely.  "You  must  learn  to  be 
more  careful." 

Le  Roy  began  to  wail  more  fiercely  than  ever,  but  he 
relaxed  a  little  as  his  cousin  Romaine  put  her  hand  into 
her  pocket. 

"Here,  dear,"  she  said,  indulgently,  "run  along  and 
buy  your  stamp." 

"You  will  spoil  him,  Romaine,"  protested  Miss 
Justinia. 

"That  is  just  what  you  used  to  say  of  Justin,"  retorted 
her  niece,  good-humoredly;  "but  I  didn't." 

"You  beat  all  to  remember,"  said  her  aunt  again. 
Justin  had  been  the  only  son  of  her  favorite  brother.  He 
had  been  named  for  her,  and  brought  up  by  her.  He 
was  in  business  in  the  city,  and  as  his  wife  had  died  when 
their  only  child  was  very  young,  Le  Roy  had  been 


160  White   Butterflies. 

put  under  the  care  of  his  aunt,  as  his  father  had  been 
before  him. 

Miss  Justinia  and  her  niece,  who  had  come  from 
New  York  only  the  day  before,  had  been  standing, 
throughout  all  of  the  interview  with  Le  Roy,  beside  the 
daffodils;  but  now  they  began  to  move  away  over  the 
brown  turf  toward  the  large  old-fashioned  garden. 

"Fifteen  years!"  mused  Romaine  Goddard  aloud.  "I 
can't  believe  that  it  has  been  even  one  year.  Everything 
seems  just  about  the  same.  Lent  had  just  begun  then, 
and  it  is  not  half  gone  now.  I  was  twenty  then,  but  I 
don't  feel  so  very  much  older  now.  Justin  was  capering 
about  here  then,  and  now  we  have  Le  Roy.  Justin  used 
to  be  devoted  to  me.  Do  you  remember,  Aunt  Justinia?" 

"I  remember  how  he  used  to  carry  your  letters  to  the 
post-office,"  remarked  her  aunt,  with  some  sternness. 
"Well,  thank  fortune,  that  affair  never  amounted  to  any- 
thing." 

A  delicate  color  crept  up  Romaine  Goddard's  refined 
but  strongly  marked  face. 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Aunt  Justinia?"  she  demanded, 
with  unexpected  emphasis. 

"Why — why — because  it  wasn't  a  suitable  thing," 
stammered  her  aunt,  taken  by  surprise. 

"But  what  was  there  about  George  Ober  that  was  un- 
suitable?" continued  Romaine,  her  gray  eyes  flashing  a 
little.  "He  was  not  rich,  and  so  my  father  did  not  like 
him;  for  my  poor  father  was  determined  that  I  should 
marry  a  millionaire.  Why  do  you  suppose  he  felt  so, 
Aunt  Justinia,  when  he  knew  that  I  should  have  enough 
anyway?  And  was  there  anything  else  against  George 
Ober?  You  knew  his  family  when  they  lived  here.  I 
don't  suppose  you  ever  saw  George  after  his  boyhood?" 


Daffodils.  iei 

"Yes,  I  did.  I  saw  him  just  once.  It  was  in  this  very 
garden,  that  very  spring.  You  had  not  been  gone  a 
week." 

"That  spring!"  said  Romaine  Goddard,  slowly.  "What 
do  you  mean,  Aunt  Justinia?  You  saw  him — here?  And 
you  never  told  me?" 

There  was  an  old  stone  bench  under  an  apple  tree,  just 
on  the  edge  of  the  garden.  Romaine  sank  down  upon 
this  bench,  and  nervously  pulled  her  aunt  down  beside  her. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  she  demanded. 

"Why,  child,"  remonstrated  Miss  Justinia,  bristling  a 
little  at  her  niece's  tone,  "there  isn't  any  more  to  tell;  that 
is,  much.  He  just  came — came  right  out  here  into  the 
garden,  where  I  was  puttering  about  just  as  I  am  to-day, 
and  asked  for  you." 

"For  me!  And  I  never  knew  his  ship  had  come  in 
at  all!" 

There  was  a  hint  of  tears  in  the  dignified  Miss  God- 
dard's  voice.  Her  aunt  looked  at  her  in  dismay. 

"Your  father  and  mother  didn't  want  you  to  know. 
Your  father  told  me  so  himself,  when  you  went  home; 
and  he  said,  too,  that  there  was  a  prospect  of  a  great 
match  for  you  there.  I  supposed  that  you  had  fallen  in 
with  that.  Girls  generally  do." 

"Oh,  that  was  such  a  spindling,  silly  fellow!"  exclaimed 
Romaine  Goddard,  in  disgust.  "I  never  thought  of  it  for 
a  moment.  I  don't  know  how  father  and  mother 
could " 

The  hint  of  tears  became  more  pronounced.  Her  aunt 
looked  at  her  sharply  and  disapprovingly. 

"Romaine  Goddard!     At  your  age,  and  your  father 
not  dead  a  year  yet,  and  your  mother  gone  long  ago! 
How  can  you  go  on  so?" 
11 


162  White    Butterflies. 

"I'm  not  blaming  them,"  declared  the  younger  woman, 
the  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks  in  good  earnest  now. 
"But  tell  me  what  he  said,  every  word." 

"Every  word!    Why,  child,  that  was  fifteen  years  ago." 

"But  sometimes  we  remember  what  happened  twenty 
years  ago  better  than  we  do  what  happened  last  week. 
Can't  you  think?" 

Think!  Miss  Justinia  could  not  forget  it  if  she  should 
try.  She  had  hoped  and  supposed,  in  her  blind  devotion 
to  Romaine's  father,  that  her  niece  had  forgotten  her  old 
lover  long  ago.  It  had  not  occurred  to  this  good  woman 
until  this  moment  that  perhaps  Romaine  had  lived  single 
all  these  years  because  of  that  handsome  young  lieu- 
tenant. 

"Well,"  proceeded  Miss  Justinia,  gazing  disapprov- 
ingly into  her  niece's  eager  face,  "this  young  fellow,  as  I 
was  saying,  all  rigged  up  in  his  uniform,  came  striding 
around  the  corner  of  the  house  there,  lifting  his  hat,  and 
asking,  in  the  most  breathless  way,  for  you.  Then  he 
went  on  to  inquire  about  the  young  man  you  were  going 
to  marry.  You  see,  your  father  had  written  him  just 
what  he  had  written  me,  and  had  told  him  that  his  daugh- 
ter, under  the  circumstances,  desired  to  close  the  corre- 
spondence with  Lieutenant  Ober." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Justinia!    Well?" 

"And  the  young  man's  face  was  rather — well — pale, 
and  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  I  fancied  he  couldn't  quite  see 
when  he  went  away,  and  I  thought  you  oughtn't  to  have 
flirted  with  him  so  hard." 

"Flirted!"  breathed  the  younger  woman.  "You  ought 
to  have  known  me  better,  Aunt  Justinia.  And  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  this  fifteen  years  ago?" 

"I  didn't  like  to  write  it,"  explained  Miss  Justinia,  with 


Daffodils.  163 

some  dignity;  "and  I  didn't  see  you  again — not  till  your 
mother  died — was  it  three  years  afterward?  And  I 
haven't  seen  you  since,  have  I?  You  know,  Romaine, 
that  I'm  odd;  I  don't  pretend  I'm  not;  I  just  live  right 
here  in  the  old  homestead,  and  I  don't  go  out  of  the  gate 
once  a  month,  except  to  the  little  gray  chapel  yonder. 
I  don't  journey  unless  I  have  to.  It's  a  hard  day's  ride 
from  here  to  New  York,  and  I  don't  go  unless  there's  a 
funeral  or  something  uncommon.  But  I've  asked  you 
to  come  here  again  and  again." 

"Yes;  and  now  perhaps  you  can  guess  why  I  haven't 
come,"  confessed  the  younger  woman,  the  despairing 
tone  in  which  she  had  spoken  hitherto  changing  to  one 
of  rebellion.  "I  felt  as  though  my  life  had  been  spoiled, 
and  it  happened  here.  I  always  loved  the  old  place  itself, 
and  I  always  loved  you,  Aunt  Justinia,  but  I  might  as 
well  tell  you  the  whole  story,  at  our  age.  George  Ober 
was  the  only  man  I  ever  wanted  to  marry.  Father 
couldn't  understand  it;  but  I  have  always  measured  my 
feeling  for  other  men  by  the  feeling  I  had  for  George 
Ober,  and  I  never  cared  half  so  much  for  any  one  else 
as  I  did  for  him.  Maybe  you  know  how  it  is  from  expe- 
rience, Aunt  Justinia.  We  are  two  old  maids  together" 
— a  pitiful  look  came  into  Romaine's  gray  eyes — "but 
you  are  so  strong  and  self-contained  that  you  never 
would  pour  it  all  out  so  foolishly  as  I  do." 

She  ceased,  for  an  acute  shadow  passed  over  her  aunt's 
thin  face,  though  she  said  nothing.  No,  Miss  Justinia 
could  not  "pour  it  all  out  so."  She  wished  devoutly  that 
she  could. 

"I  wonder  how  he  had  happened  to  come  up  here?" 
Romaine  began  again,  abruptly. 

"Oh,  there  are  some  Obers  down  in  the  village  here — 


164  White   Butterflies. 

cousins  of  his.    I  never  see  them."    Miss  Justinia's  tone 
was  full  of  scorn. 

"Why?  Aren't  they  respectable  people?" 
"Mercy!  yes,  child!  Don't  speak  so  cross.  The  Obers," 
proceeded  Miss  Justinia,  bent  upon  giving  to  the  case 
of  her  dead  brother  as  good  a  showing  as  she  could — "the 
Obers  are  all  well  enough;  but  they  are  an  open-handed, 
shiftless  kind  of  folks — the  whole  tribe.  Your  father 
never  liked  them.  And  'Ober'  is  such  a  name!  I  always 
disliked  it." 

"It  is  just  as  good  as  Goddard,"  insisted  Romaine, 
amused  in  spite  of  herself  at  the  turn  of  her  aunt's  argu- 
ment. "And  George's  father,  though  he  was  only  a  poor 
clerk,  was  just  as  noble  as  he  could  be.  I  suppose 
George  was  about  as  old  as  Le  Roy  here  when  they  went 
to  live  in  the  city.  After  that  Bessie,  the  sister,  went  to 
school  with  me  for  years.  They  denied  themselves  every- 
thing to  educate  her.  I  was  at  their  house  every  day 
almost,  and  I  can't  remember  the  time  that  George  and 
I  didn't  love  each  other.  We  never  were  really  engaged, 
but  we  always  understood  each  other.  He  went  to  the 
Naval  Academy,  and  then  he  started  on  that  long  cruise. 
He  must  have  just  come  back  when  he  was  here.  I  sup- 
pose my  father's  letter  was  waiting  for  him  when  he 
reached  port — very  likely  before  Lent  began — so  he  did 
not  answer  my  letters.  I  was  proud,  and  would  not  write 
until  he  wrote,  and — well,  we  have  said  enough  for  to- 
day. I'm  sure  I  never  thought  of  our  getting  off  on  this 
subject  when  we  stood  over  the  daffodils.  Those  two 
blasted  buds  have  followed  me  all  my  life — but  it  is  ab- 
surd. His  life  hasn't  been  blasted,  I  suppose.  He  was 
just  a  year  older  than  I.  Now  he  is  thirty-six — a  staid, 
middle-aged  man,  probably  with  a  wife  and  half-a-dozen 


Daffodils.  166 

children.  Bessie  died  when  we  were  sixteen,  and  the 
Obers  moved  ever  so  far  out  West;  but,  though  I've  no 
means  of  knowing,  it  is  probably  just  as  I  say.  He  is 
domestic  and  contented,  and  I — I  am  'the  rich  Miss  God- 
dard,  with  everything  on  earth  to  make  her  happy,'  as 
I  overheard  myself  described  at  a  party  one  evening." 

She  laughed  bitterly  and  rose  to  walk  further,  when 
Le  Roy  came  bounding  across  the  leafless  beds.  j 

"It's  dinner-time,"  he  shouted  to  Aunt  Justinia's  dis- 
may; "and  here's  the  Guatemala  stamp,  like  the  one  I 
lost,  and  here's  an  Egyptian  pyramid  stamp,  and  here's 
the  Ionian  Islands,  and  Finland.  Aren't  they  pretty? 
And  I've  got  a  lot  more  to  trade." 

He  smiled  broadly,  put  his  treasures  into  an  envelope 
in  his  pocket,  and  confidingly  clasped  his  cousin's  hand 
in  his  own,  as  they  proceeded  toward  the  dining-room. 

"I'm  going  down  to  the  hotel  with  Guy  Rice,"  he 
rambled  on  between  portentous  mouthfuls,  after  the  noon 
dinner  had  been  served. 

Miss  Justinia  and  her  niece  had  been  talking  about  the 
garden,  and  she  had  not  paid  much  attention  to  Le  Roy's 
occasional  remarks,  but  the  word  "hotel"  now  caught 
her  ear. 

"I  can't  have  you  running  to  the  hotel,"  she  began, 
sharply.  "You  have  been  to  the  village  once  to-day  to 
see  Guy.  It's  two  miles  there.  You  have  walked 
enough." 

Le  Roy  dropped  his  knife  and  fork  and  began  to  howl 
dismally.  Miss  Justinia  twisted  his  chair  a  little  away 
from  the  table. 

"Go,"  she  said,  peremptorily,  to  the  child — "go,  and 
don't  come  back  till  you  can  stop  crying.  A  great  boy 


166  White   Butterflies. 

like  you!    What  will  Cousin  Romaine  think?    After  giv- 
ing you  that  money,  too." 

"I  can  get  some  splendid  stamps  without  any  money 
down  at  the  hotel,"  blubbered  Le  Roy,  making  no  motion 
to  obey  orders.  "Guy's  got  a  lot  there." 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Justinia,  weakening  a  little,  for,  like 
John  Gilpin's  wife,  she  had  a  frugal  mind.  "I  didn't  un- 
derstand. How  do  you  get  stamps  for  nothing  down 
there?  I  supposed  you  just  wanted  to  tramp." 

Le  Roy's  pudgy  little  face  began  to  clear.  "If  you'd 
'a'  waited,  I'd  V  told  you  before,"  he  commenced,  re- 
proachfully; "but  you  just  told  me  to  'go.'  " 

"I  was  hasty,"  admitted  his  aunt,  with  a  sufficient  show 
of  penitence.  "Well?" 

"There's  a  man  at  the  hotel — he's  a  Frenchman,  or  a 
Russian,  or  a  Kodak,  or  something,"  said  Le  Roy, 
vaguely.  "Anyhow,  he  likes  little  boys,  and  he's  been 
everywhere,  and  he  gets  sights  of  stamps,  and  he  used  to 
know  Guy's  father,  and  he  gave  Guy  some  stamps,  and 
Guy  says  he  knows  he'll  give  me  some.  We  won't  stay 
but  just  a  minute." 

"Well,"  Miss  Justinia  conceded  after  a  pause,  "you 
may  go  if  you  will  be  back  by  four  o'clock." 

Le  Roy  finished  his  dessert  in  very  short  order,  and 
was  soon  on  his  way  to  "the  hotel."  He  had  left  his  cousin 
convulsed  with  laughter.  Whatever  turn  the  conversa- 
tion at  table  had  chanced  to  take,  Le  Roy  always  brought 
it  up  plump  against  postage  stamps.  Romaine  had  re- 
marked that  the  number  of  a  certain  house  in  the  city  was 
695,  whereupon  Le  Roy  had  chirruped  that  he  had  ex- 
actly 695  stamps  in  his  album.  She  had  descanted  upon 
the  poetry  of  the  Queen  of  Roumania,  which  elicited  the 
remark  from  Le  Roy  that  he  wished  she  would  send  him 


Daffodils.  167 

some  Roumanian  stamps.  A  small  boy  who  was  men- 
tioned as  convalescing,  but  suffering  from  too  little  to  do, 
was  gravely  recommended  by  Le  Roy  to  turn  his  atten- 
tion to  stamps. 

After  he  had  gone,  Miss  Justinia  retired  for  a  nap, 
but  Romaine,  taking  a  book,  strolled  out  again  into  the 
rare  March  sunshine.  She  seated  herself  upon  the  old 
stone  bench,  and  fell  to  dreaming.  Her  book  slipped 
down  upon  the  warm  turf,  and  the  years  slipped  as  easily 
away  from  her  mind.  Again  she  was  the  ardent  girl  of 
twenty,  writing  letters  on  this  very  spot  to  her  sailor 
lover;  again  she  felt  the  old  dumb  heartache  which  had 
come  when  he  did  not  answer  them  any  more;  again  she 
went  through  with  the  dull  perplexity  which  had  seized 
her  when  she  tried  to  account  for  it  all.  To  think  that 
Aunt  Justinia — what  close-mouthed  creatures  the  God- 
dards  were! — had  held  the  key  to  the  mystery  for  all 
these  years! 

"Oh,  if  I  had  only  known!"  sighed  Romaine  Goddard 
to  herself.  "He  was  poor,  and  so  proud!" 

And  Aunt  Justinia  had  said  that  he  had  been  "pale," 
that  she  thought  he  "could  not  quite  see"  as  he  walked 
away.  Oh,  how  he  must  have  suffered!  And  Romaine 
had  fancied  that  he  had,  perhaps,  flung  the  thought  of 
her  lightly  away  from  him.  How  strange  that  she  had 
scarcely  heard  his  name  mentioned  in  all  these  years! 
Yet  she  felt  sure  that,  if  he  had  died,  she  should  somehow 
have  heard  of  it.  Suppose  he  should  come  back  to  the 
city  again?  Suppose  it  should  all  be  explained?  He  could 
easily  find  her  if  he  chose,  and  he  could  learn  all  about 
her  from  others — how  she  was  free  to  do  as  she  liked 
now.  But,  nonsense!  Men  of  thirty-six  did  not  fancy 
women  of  their  own  age.  They  liked  fresh,  young 


168  White    Butterflies. 

beauty.  "And  I  was  never  beautiful,"  thought  Romaine 
Gpddard,  with  a  pang.  She  wondered  if  she  looked  now 
anything  as  she  used  to  in  those  old  days.  Of  course, 
she  must  appear  older;  but  still,  people  were  often  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  she  was  not  in  her  twenties.  Her 
figure  was  as  slender  and  graceful  as  ever.  She  won- 
dered how  she  should  look  in  a  bright,  flamboyant  hat, 
such  as  she  had  long  since  eschewed.  If  he  should  ever 
come — .  Here  she  broke  herself  off, and  laughed  harshly. 

"I  think  I  had  better  read,"  she  said,  half  aloud. 

There  was  a  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  road.  The 
horse  stopped,  but  Romaine  did  not  look  up.  Her  tem- 
porary exaltation  had  been  followed  by  the  reaction  which 
usually  succeeds  such  a  vision.  She  felt  old  and  lonely, 
and  though  she  was  mechanically  following  the  words 
upon  the  page  before  her,  still,  in  her  far  inner  conscious- 
ness, she  was  pondering  whether  she  had  not  better  sell 
the  great  house  in  New  York  and  come  to  live  in  the 
old  place  with  Aunt  Justinia  and  Le  Roy. 

Suddenly  a  shadow  fell  across  her  book.  It  startled  her, 
and  she  gave  a  little  cry. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  a  voice  which  she  knew. 
"I  had  no  business  to  intrude  upon  you  without  first  an- 
nouncing myself,  but " 

"Why,  George — Lieutenant  Ober,"  she  began,  feeling 
as  though  the  world  must  have  passed  away  from  her, 
and  she  must  have  entered  the  realm  of  spirits. 
"This  is — why — where — Aunt  Justinia  was  speaking  of 
you  to-day — but oh,  what  does  it  all  mean?" 

She  laughed  feebly.  Then  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.  She  felt  that  she  was  making  herself  unutter- 
ably ridiculous. 

"I  am  no  ghost,"  he  said,  gravely,  seating  himself  on 


Daffodils.  169 

the  old  stone  bench  beside  her.  As  he  did  this,  she  took 
her  hands  down,  and  he  looked  keenly  into  her  face. 

"Oh,  I  am  altered!"  her  heart  cried  within  her,  with 
a  passionate  wish  for  the  youth  which  she  had  lost,  and 
for  which  she  had  never  grieved  before.  It  shook  the 
calm  which  she  had  gained  after  the  first  surprise,  but 
his  quiet  voice  brought  her  back  to  herself. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again,"  he  began. 

The  commonplace  remark  was  well  timed. 

"Thank  you.  It  is  very  pleasant,"  she  replied,  with  an 
assumption  of  gayety.  "But  I  miss  your  uniform.  Are 
you  no  longer  in  the  navy?" 

"I  threw  up  my  commission  years  ago.  I  have  had  a 
consulate  over-seas,  Romaine.  My  life  has  been  passed 
in  foreign  lands.  I  have  not  been  very  happy." 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  simply. 

It  seemed  hopeless  to  her  to  try  ever  to  untangle  the 
twisted  threads  of  the  last  fifteen  years;  but,  man-like, 
George  Ober  cut  the  knot  at  a  stroke. 

"Yes,  Romaine,"  he  continued,  dwelling  on  the  old 
name  a  little,  "I  have  been  very  lonely.  And  you?  Your 
little  cousin  told  me  that  you  never  married,  after  all." 

The  whole  situation  was  revealed  to  her  as  by  a  glance, 
and  she  blessed  Le  Roy  and  his  mania. 

"I  never  meant  to  marry!"  she  cried,  indignantly. 

"But — but  your  father  wrote  me  so,  and  your  aunt 
confirmed  it." 

"I  found  that  out  only  to-day.  I  could  not  understand 
your  silence.  Oh,  it — it "  She  paused. 

"Why,  Romaine,"  he  exclaimed,  his  tone  growing 

buoyant,  "I  wish But  first  I  must  tell  you  that  I 

have  not  grown  rich.  I  have  enough,  but  I  am  not  rich, 
like  you.  If  I  had  been  rich" — his  voice  thickened — "I 


170  White   Butterflies. 

should  not  have  submitted  so  tamely  as  I  did  fifteen 
years  ago." 

"I  hate  money!''  she  cried,  passionately.  "It  has  been 
the  bane " 

"Mr.  Ober,"  shrilled  a  boyish  voice  beside  them,  "you 
said  you  had  given  us  some  Turkish  stamps,  but  Guy  and 
I  can't  find  'em.  We've  looked  the  whole  lot  through, 
too." 

"My  boy,  I'll  get  them  for  you  this  very  afternoon," 
declared  George  Ober,  springing  to  his  feet.  "I'll  do 
anything  on  earth  for  you." 

Le  Roy  opened  his  eyes  in  blissful  amazement  at  the 
earnestness  of  this  new  and  to  him  most  desirable  ac- 
quaintance; and  his  expression  deepened  when  his  cousin 
Romaine  kissed  him  warmly,  and  gave  him  a  whole  dol- 
lar to  spend  as  he  pleased. 

"It  was  by  the  merest  chance  that  I  came  here,"  George 
Ober  went  on,  as  the  boy  ran  off  to  join  his  playmate, 
who  was  waiting  by  the  gate.  "I  have  not  been  in 
America  before  for  years,  and  I  was  going  to  sail  for 
the  South  Pacific  in  a  fortnight;  but  my  cousins  in 
the  village  wrote  me  a  pressing  invitation  to  come  up 
here,  and  so  I  came.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  had  hoped 
to  hear  something  of  you,  even  though  it  should  be  as  the 
wife  of  another  man.  But  nobody  in  the  village  seems 
to  know  anything  about  your  life  nowadays." 

"No,"  said  Romaine.  "I  have  riot  made  Aunt  Justinia 
a  visit  for  fifteen  years,  and  she  does  not  talk  about  fam- 
ily affairs.  She  sees  only  half-a-dozen  people  a  year, 
one  might  say." 

"But  my  young  stamp  collector  bore  the  name  of  God- 
dard.  I  put  a  few  questions  to  him,  and  then  I  galloped 


Daffodils.  m 

off  so  fast  that  I  think  he  can  hardly  have  recovered  yet 
from  his  astonishment."  George  Ober  laughed. 

"There!"  said  Romaine,  "you  look  now  as  you  used  to." 

"And  you  look  exactly  as  you  used  to." 

She  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"Let's  have  everything  as  we  used  to,  Romaine." 

"It  has  always  been  the  same  with  me,"  she  said, 
softly. 

Aunt  Justinia  came  out  on  the  veranda,  and  peered 
over  into  the  garden. 

"We  must  go  and  see  her,"  suggested  Romaine,  rising. 

George  Ober  bent  down  to  give  her  his  arm.  How 
distinguished  he  had  grown! 

"George,"  she  laughed  up  into  his  face,  "I  feel  like  a 
girl,  instead  of  a  prosy,  middle-aged  old  maid." 

"You  are  always  a  girl  to  me,  Romaine,"  he  whispered. 

He  lingered  a  long  time  on  the  veranda.  After  a  while 
Le  Roy  came  back.  He  looked  displeased  when  he  saw 
that  his  hero  had  not  departed. 

"Your  horse  is  pawing  round  awfully  out  there  by  the 
post,"  he  hazarded,  with  some  emphasis;  "and  you  know 
we  can't  have  those  Turkish  stamps  till  you  get  back  to 
the  hotel." 

Easter  Sunday  broke  beautifully  that  year.  There 
was  a  great  hubbub  in  the  little  country  village,  for  there 
was  to  be  a  wedding — a  very  simple  and  quiet  one — at 
the  pretty  gray  chapel  near  Miss  Justinia  Goddard's.  Her 
niece,  Miss  Romaine  Goddard,  the  great  New  York 
heiress,  was  to  marry  the  distinguished  Mr.  Ober,  who 
had  been  boarding  at  the  hotel  for  several  weeks.  Some 
hints  of  their  romantic  story  had  crept  out,  and  every- 
body was  determined  to  witness  the  ceremony  which  was 
at  last  to  unite  the  long-severed  pair.  It  was  almost  like 


172  White   Butterflies. 

the  wedding  at  the  end  of  "The  Children  of  the  Abbey." 
I  said  that  everybody  was  determined  to  go,  but  there 
was  one  who  was  not. 

Le  Roy,  who  was  forbidden  always  to  touch  his  stamps 
upon  the  Sabbath,  was  found,  after  a  frantic  search,  at  the 
last  moment,  in  a  remote  upper  chamber  of  the  barn, 
surrounded  by  his  treasures,  which  had  recently  received 
large  accessions.  At  first,  with  tears,  he  vehemently  re- 
fused to  leave  them;  but  by  a  judicious  use  of  that  wicked 
bribery  which  even  the  most  conscientious  mothers  and 
aunts  are  sometimes  compelled  to  employ,  Aunt  Justinia 
lured  him  to  appear  at  the  wedding.  His  pockets  were 
bursting  with  stamps,  and  the  prospects  which  had  been 
spread  before  him  had  not  only  dried  his  tears,  but  had 
lent  a  glow  to  his  countenance  which  was  a  positive  in- 
spiration to  the  whole  company.  Le  Roy  had  become 
the  envy  of  all  the  young  collectors  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  his  secret  and  perhaps  not  unjustifiable  ambition 
was  to  become  the  envy  of  the  stamp  collectors  of  two 
hemispheres. 

Romaine  Goddard  looked  like  a  young  girl,  when, 
leaning  on  her  lover's  arm,  she  stepped  out  of  her  aunt's 
door  to  walk  over  to  the  church.  As  they  passed  the 
sewing  window,  she  noticed  the  daffodils.  She  had  not 
thought  of  them  since  the  day  when  she  had  asked  Miss 
Justinia  if  there  "were  always  just  two  buds  in  that  par- 
ticular bunch";  but  the  two  little  buds  had  sweetly  grown 
and  grown  under  the  spring  sunshine,  until  now,  as  she 
looked,  two  bright  dewy  blossoms  breathed  up  to  her  a 
fragrant  congratulation  upon  her  wedding  day. 

"See!"  she  said  to  her  lover;  "it  is  a  good  omen." 

And  as  they  walked  across  the  April  greensward,  she 
told  him  the  story  of  the  daffodils. 


"Sottyr 


THE  STORY  OF  A  GENTLEMAN. 

you  ask  'em  for  any  blue  pieces,  M'lancy?" 

"No,  I  didn't.    I've  been  workin'  too  hard  to 
think  o'  pieces — blue  pieces  or  any  other  kind." 

"Now  you  knew  I'd  been  a-wantin'  blue  pieces  for  a 
week  'n'  more,  M'lancy.  Seems  'sif  you  might  '?' 
thought  about  'em." 

"If  I  was  a  great  big  man,  Solly  Shedd,  workin'  out  by 
the  day,  an'  knowin'  consid'able  about  carpenterin'  an' 
plasterin',  an'  a  little  mite  o'  everything  seems  to  me  I 
c'd  raise  money  enough  to  buy  some  blue  pieces  for 
myself!  Beggin'  for  pieces,  an'  beggin'  for  pieces!  I'm 
sick  o'  hearin'  you  all  the  time  beggin'  for  pieces!" 

M'lancy  Shedd's  small,  black  eyes  snapped  with  a  dull, 
contemptuous  fire  upon  her  husband.  But  Solly  did  not 
resent  her  flings  at  him. 

"I  ain't  beggin',''  he  persisted,  humbly.  "Everybody 
asks  for  pieces.  I  give  away  jest  as  many  as  I  git,  I 
know.  Mis'  Murchison  had  a  lot  o'  blue  pieces  left  from 
them  comf'tables  the  sassiety  made  last  week.  They'll 
be  all  gone  fust  thing  you  know.  You  might  'a'  thought 
on  'em,  M'lancy — I  swan  you  might." 

But  not  even  the  tender  reproach  conveyed  in  Solly's 
"I  swan"  seemed  to  move  to  repentance  the  hard-hearted 
M'lancy,  and  she  did  not  appear  inclined  to  push  the  con- 
tention any  further.  This  was  rather  remarkable.  It  was 
usually  M'lancy  who  had  the  last  word  in  the  mild  dis- 
173 


174  White   Butterflies. 

putes  of  the  Shedd  family.  But  to-night  M'lancy  was 
tired,  as  she  had  already  informed  her  husband;  besides, 
she  was  out  of  patience  with  Solly  for  enjoying  patch- 
work. There  had  been  a  time  when  she  had  thought  his 
ingenuity  and  industry  in  this  direction  admirable,  and 
when  she  had  boasted  of  it  to  everybody;  but  she  had 
lately  heard  people  laughing  over  Solly's  peculiarities  in 
this  respect.  This  had  put  the  matter  in  a  new  light  be- 
fore her,  and  she  had  begun  to  upbraid  him  bitterly  for 
spending  so  much  time  over  useless  patchwork. 

"Seems  'sif  you  might  be  more  like  other  men,  Solly 
Shedd.  They  ain't  another  man  in  Carley  that  pieces 
bedquilts  but  you.  Seems  'sif  you  acshally  hated  to  git 
a  job  at  plantin'  in  the  spring,  'cos  you  hate  to  leave  the 
bedquilts  you've  been  fussin'  over  all  winter.  If  there 
was  any  gain  in  'em,  it  would  be  different,  but  they  ain't. 
Nobody  never  wants  'em,  an'  here  we've  got  as  many  as 
a  dozen  on  'em.  I  don't  s'pose  you'd  sell  'em  if  you 
was  offered  ten  dollars  apiece  for  'em." 

Ten  dollars  was  a  great  sum  to  M'lancy. 

"Yes,  I  would  too,"  protested  Solly,  meekly.  "I  should 
kinder  hate  to,  but  I  would.  An'  how  can  you  say, 
M'lancy,  that  I  don't  make  no  money  outen  my  quilts? 
That  risin*  sun  'o'  mine  took  seventy-five  cents  premium 
to  the  cattle  show,  an'  last  year  the  oak  leaf  one  took 
a  dollar,  an'  the  log  cabin  one  fifty  cents.  My  rose  o' 
Texas  took  a  premium  onst  too.  An'  then  I  do'  know 
what  we'd  do  cold  nights  in  winter  'thout  them  quilts. 
I  don't  never  make  'em,  M'lancy,  on'y  when  I  hain't 
got  another  blessed  thing  to  do — you  know  I  don't. 
When  they's  ploughin'  an'  seedin'  an'  choppin',  I  don't 
never  sew  them  times." 

To  be  just,  this  was  true.    Solly's  own  domain,  which 


« Solly."  175 

he  rented  of  Mr.  Murchison,  was  only  a  garden,  in  which 
he  raised  "sass"  enough  to  supply  the  wants  of  his  own 
small  family.  M'lancy  and  the  only  scion  of  the  Shedd 
family,  known  as  "Alfid,"  did  a  large  part  of  the  work  in 
this  garden,  and  Solly  went  out  by  the  day  at  anything  for 
which  he  was  wanted.  He  was  not  especially  efficient, 
but  "hired  men"  were  scarce  in  Carley,  and  the  farmers 
were  glad  to  have  a  man  so  faithful  and  honest  as  Solly, 
even  if  he  was  not  so  quick  nor  so  thorough  as  some 
others;  but  when  the  "apple-pickin'  "  and  the  last  fall 
jobs  were  over,  and  until  the  "sleddin'  "  came  on,  Solly 
was  glad  enough  to  settle  down  in  a  broken  chair  in  the 
tumble-down  old  farmhouse  in  which  he  resided,  and 
piece  his  beloved  bedquilts  till  the  demand  for  his  serv- 
ices revived. 

"It's  amazin',"  he  would  say,  "how  you  can  git  on  with 
a  bedquilt  when  you  give  your  mind  to  it." 

And  it  was.  Yet  here  late  October  had  come,  Solly's 
woodpile  was  well  supplied,  there  wasn't  anything  in  par- 
ticular to  do,  he  was  at  work  upon  a  ravishing  "forget- 
me-not"  quilt,  for  which  blue  pieces  were  especially 
needed,  and  M'lancy  had  worked  all  day  at  Mrs.  Murchi- 
son's,  where  blue  pieces  abounded  even  as  coals  at  New- 
castle, and  she  had  not  brought  home  one.  It  was  hard, 
and  naturally  Solly  found  it  difficult  to  be  reconciled. 
Besides,  Solly  would  never  have  treated  M'lancy  so,  and 
she  knew  it.  Solly  adored  her,  and  put  up  with  almost 
everything  from  her,  as  the  neighbors  could  have  tes- 
tified. Solly  could  not  help  being  a  little  lame,  for  he 
had  been  wounded  in  the  army,  and  could  not  bend  his 
right  knee,  which  made  his  gait  a  sort  of  succession  of 
peripatetic  colons  and  semicolons,  vastly  amusing  to  the 
small  boys  of  the  village.  Neither  could  poor  Solly  help 


176  White   Butterflies. 

a  constitutional  state  of  bewilderment  in  his  brain.  There 
was  something  wrong  there,  and  Solly  would  not  have 
denied  it.  The  look  in  his  kindly  eyes  was  not  that  of 
a  person  who  is  quite  sane  and  sensible;  but  poor  Solly 
was  born  so,  and  nobody  laid  up  his  deficiencies  against 
him  except  M'lancy.  She  thought,  and  had  frequently 
remarked  in  her  husband's  hearing,  that  "if  Solly  would 
kinder  stir  round  a  little  livelier,  he  might  be  smarter"; 
but  poor  Solly  in  his  ordinary  every-day  mood  could  not 
do  this,  and  M'lancy  should  have  been  the  last  one  to  re- 
proach him  with  his  lack  of  brilliancy,  not  only  on  sen- 
timental grounds,  but  because  she  herself  was  considered 
to  be  "a  little  lackin'/'  while  she  did  not  possess  Solly's 
compensating  amiability  and  unselfishness.  In  fact, 
M'lancy  had  a  very  cross  streak  in  her  nature;  but  in 
spite  of  this  streak  and  of  the  far  from  exemplary  char- 
acter which  she  had  borne  before  she  married  Solly,  to 
him  she  always  seemed  to  be  a  pattern  of  the  domestic 
virtues,  and  he  would  believe  no  evil  concerning  her. 

On  this  day,  when  Solly  was  reproaching  his  wife  for 
her  failure  to  think  of  him  and  of  his  wants,  there  was 
a  reason  for  M'lancy 's  comparative  moderation  and  her 
failure  to  reply  to  Solly's  heartfelt  protest,  more  potent 
than  her  weariness  or  her  impatience  with  his  patch- 
work. M'lancy  had  something  on  her  alleged  mind. 
There  was  not  room  for  more  than  one  idea  at  a  time  in 
that  poor  thick  head,  and  perhaps  the  reason  why  she 
had  forgotten  the  pieces  was  because  the  idea  which  had 
taken  possession  of  her  was  of  a  different  nature  alto- 
gether. 

Mr.  Murchison's  eldest  son  Frank  was  building  a  new 
house  a  little  way  down  the  road  from  the  Shedds'.  He 
was  going  to  be  married  very  soon,  and  M'lancy  had 


« Solly."  ,         177 

heard  Frank's  affairs  talked  over  a  good  deal  that  day 
while  she  had  been  cleaning  paint  and  scrubbing  floors 
at  the  paternal  mansion.  It  seemed  that,  young  Frank 
Murchison  being  a  popular  sort  of  fellow,  his  friends  in 
town  had  "taken  hold,"  and  helped  him  most  efficiently. 
It  had  been  represented  in  M'lancy's  presence  that  Frank 
Murchison's  new  house — a  trim  and  tidy  little  domicile 
— was  going  to  cost  him  hardly  anything  compared  with 
what  he  had  expected  to  pay  for  it. 

"I  don't  calc'late  it's  cost  him  more'n  two  or  three 
hundred  dollars,"  muttered  M'lancy,  shortly  after  Solly 
ceased  excusing  himself  for  doing  patchwork. 

"What  you  talkin'  about,  M'lancy?"  inquired  Solly, 
as  they  walked  lumberingly  along. 

Now  he  understood  why  she  had  been  so  mild — for 
M'lancy — in  answering  his  protests,  and  why  she  had 
given  him  the  last  word.  She  was  thinking  of  something 
else. 

"Nothin'  much,"  returned  M'lancy,  provokingly. 

"All  right,"  said  Solly. 

They  trudged  on  until  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  them 
in  sight  of  the  weather-beaten,  broken-roofed  old  house  in 
which  they  lived.  A  few  rods  further  on  was  the  spruce 
new  residence  of  Mr.  Reynolds,  the  best  carpenter  in 
the  village,  who  also  ran  the  chief  sawmill  in  the  place. 

"There!"  exclaimed  M'lancy,  pointing  to  the  Rey- 
nolds abode,  and  then  to  their  own  poor  lodging.  "I'd 
like  to  know,  Solly  Shedd — I'd  like  to  know  why  we 
hain't  got  so  good  a  house  as  Reynolds  there?  Say,  why 
hain't  we?" 

"  'Cos  we  hain't,"  answered  poor  Solly,  with  no  sug- 
gestion of  humor  in  his  voice,  and  with  the  sweat  start- 
12 


178  White   Butterflies. 

ing  on  his  homely  face  at  the  sharp  insistence  in  M'lancy's 
voice.    "I  do'  know  no  other  reason,  I'm  sure." 

"Waal,  I  do,"  returned  M'lancy,  viciously.  "It's  be- 
cause Reynolds  there  works  at  his  bench  all  winter,  an' 
gits  pay  for  what  he  does,  'stid  o'  putterin'  round,  like 
any  old  woman,  piecin'  bedquilts  an'  sech,  that  he  don't 
never  git  a  cent  for.  Oh,  you  needn't  say  'premiums' 
to  me!  All  the  premiums  you  ever  got,  Solly  Shedd; 
wouldn't  pay  for  our  carrysene  for  six  months.  I  tell 
ye  Reynolds  built  a  house  'cos  he  can  do  things  he  gits 
paid  for." 

"I  can't  carpenter  so  good  as  he  can;  you  know  I  can't, 
M'lancy,"  protested  Solly,  miserably. 

They  entered  at  the  creaking  door,  and  M'lancy 
began  to  bundle  about  and  get  some  sort  of  a  supper. 
Alfid,  an  overgrown  boy  of  fifteen,  came  in  with  a  bag 
slung  over  his  shoulder.  He  had  been  nutting,  and  had 
had  "luck."  He  said  nothing,  but  passed  through  the 
room  to  a  little  lean-to,  which  he  had  converted  into  a 
sort  of  shop  for  his  own  use,  and  in  which  he  kept  a 
few  tools. 

"Now,  there's  Alfid,"  went  on  Solly.  "Mebbe  he  can 
carpenter  some  time  as  good  as  Reynolds,  if  he  learns  the 
trade;  but  I  never  learnt  the  trade." 

"I  intend  he  shall  learn  the  trade,"  said  M'lancy,  in  a 
high  key.  "I  intend  he  sha'n't  never  learn  to  make  bed- 
quilts,  whatever  he  does.  An'  I  don't  believe  but  what 
you  know  as  much  about  carpenterin'  as  Frank  Murchi- 
son  does,  an'  with  you  'n'  Alfid  together,  I  don't  see  any  - 
reason  why  we  can't  have  a  new  house  same  as  Frank 
Murchison  has." 

"Same  as  Frank  Murchison  has!"  echoed  Solly,  per- 
fectly dumfounded  at  M'lancy's  temerity. 


Solly."  179 


"Yes,  sir;  same  as  Frank  Murchison  has,"  repeated 
M'lancy,  mimicking  Solly's  horrified  manner.  "I'll  bet 
you  Mr.  Murchison  or  Mr.  Reynolds  would  give  you,  or 
same  as  give  you,  a  plot;  'tain't  much  for  'em  to  do,  work- 
in'  for  'em  long  as  you  have.  An'  they's  lots  o'  men 
would  help  you,  I  know,  same  as  they've  helped  Frank. 
Oh,  dear,  if  you  could  only  git  that  pension,  Solly!" 

"Oh,  lord,  M'lancy!  'tain't  no  use.  It's  a  year  ago 
sense  I  went  to  Square  Mansfield  about  it,  an'  I  ain't 
heard  nothin'  about  it  sence.  I  sha'n't  never  hear  no 
more  about  it,  M'lancy." 

By  this  time  M'lancy  had  some  sort  of  a  supper  tossed 
together,  and  Alfid  was  summoned  from  the  lean-to. 
Alfid  never  spoke  unless  he  was  spoken  to,  and  his  coun- 
tenance was  not  entirely  free  from  the  vacant  cast  which, 
in  different  ways,  characterized  the  faces  of  his  parents, 
but  he  read  many  books,  was  ingenious  in  a  mechani- 
cal way,  and  some  people  thought  he  had  a  good  deal 
of  sense.  To  M'lancy  and  Solly,  of  course,  Alfid  was  an 
intellectual  luminary  of  the  first  rank. 

They  ate  silently  for  a  few  moments;  then  M'lancy 
added,  as  though  there  had  been  no  turn  or  pause  in 
the  conversation  about  the  house,  "An'  Alfid'll  help  you 
a  lot." 

Solly  groaned.  The  idea  of  starting  out  to  build  a 
house  seemed  to  him  too  colossally  preposterous  to  be 
entertained  for  a  moment. 

"I  think  you'd  orter  go  to  Square  Mansfield  again, 
an'  see  about  a  pension,"  went  on  M'lancy,  whose  ambi- 
tion had  received  an  unaccountable  stimulus  since  she 
had  heard  the  inside  history  of  Frank  Murchison's  new 
house. 

"Oh,  I  told  him  all  about  it,  an'  how  I'd  lost  all  my 


180  White  Butterflies. 

papers  'n'  things,"  said  Solly,  despairingly.  "An*  how 
the  knee  that  was  shot  was  the  same  one  that  was  allers 
stiff  a  little  mite,  you  know.  I  had  rheumatiz  in  it  when 
I  was  little,  an'  it's  allers  plagued  me.  It's  been  a  sight 
worse  sence  it  was  shot,  of  course,  but  I  do'  know  as  any- 
body'd  believe  that.  The  square  said  they  wa'n't  much 
chance  for  me,  an'  he  said  he'd  tell  me  if  they  was  a'ny 
good  news  come  for  me,  an'  of  course  he  would.  'Tain't 
no  use,  M'lancy." 

"But  you  was  in  lots  o'  battles,"  persisted  the  sanguine 
M'lancy. 

"Six  on  'em,  M'lancy — six  big  ones,  an'  ten  or  a  dozen 
pretty  hot  skirmishes — an'  I  never  run  away." 

"An'  didn't  you  capture  a  flag  or  somethin',  Solly?" 

"Yes.  I  seen  one,"  said  Solly,  beginning  to  tell  an 
old,  old  story  (which  the  modest  fellow  hated  to  allude 
to),  on  purpose  to  pacify  M'lancy — "I  seen  a  flag,  an'  all 
the  men  was  strugglin'  along  an'  hollerin',  'Git  it!  git 
it!'  An'  it  seemed  to  be  the  handiest  for  me  to  git  it; 
so  I  run  right  along — I  was  kinder  scart,  but  I  never 
stopped  for  that — an'  at  last  I  grabbed  it,  an'  flung  it 
back  among  the  fellers,  for  jest  then  they  was  a  ball 
come  sizzin'  along,  an'  took  me  right  in  my  knee.  The 
men  managed  to  drag  me  away,  but  I  was  in  the  hospital 
for  more'n  three  months  afterwards.  Why,  Robin  Car- 
ter was  there,  M'lancy,  an'  Isr'el  Warner;  they  was  lots 
o'  Carley  boys  in  the  regiment.  Robin  Carter  see  me  hit, 
himself." 

"An'  when  you  got  out  o'  the  hospital,  I  s'pose  you 
went  to  fightin'  ag'in,"  commented  M'lancy,  disgustedly. 

"Course  I  did,"  said  Solly,  simply.  "I  wa'n't  a-goin' 
to  have  the  Union  go  to  pieces,  not  if  I  could  help  it.  I 
was  awful  scart  lots  o'  times,  but  I  never  run  away." 


« Solly."  m 

"An*  you  can't  work  half  so  good  when  your  leg's  hurt 
as  you  could  if  it  hadn't  'a'  been,"  sighed  M'lancy.  "Oh, 
dear,  Solly,  you'd  orter  have  a  pension!  An'  " — flashing 
up  again  in  a  sudden  burst  of  passion — "if  you  was  half 
a  man,  Solly  Shedd,  you'd  fly  round  an'  get  one." 

"Waal,  I  guess  I  ain't,"  sighed  Solly,  with  an  air  of 
uncomfortable  resignation,  "for  I  know  Square  Mansfield 
thinks  I  ain't  got  no  chance,  an'  he  orter  know." 

"They  ain't  no  two  shingles  on  the  roof  that  touch 
each  other,"  complained  M'lancy,  attacking  from  another 
quarter. 

Solly  merely  gave  a  long,  harassed  sigh,  but  Alfid  vol- 
unteered the  information  that  he  could  shingle  the  roof 
well  enough  if  he  only  had  some  shingles  and  some  nails. 

Mr.  Murchison  charged  nothing  for  the  rickety  old 
mansion,  excepting  the  payment  of  the  yearly  taxes  upon 
it,  and  the  making  of  repairs.  The  latter,  whenever  they 
required  expense,  were  generally  allowed  to  remain  un- 
done. Solly  had  hard  enough  work  to  feed  and  clothe  his 
family,  even  with  M'lancy  ?s  and  Alfid's  help,  without 
spending  money  for  boards  and  nails  and  door-handles. 

"Waal,"  said  M'lancy,  pitching  her  voice  again  well 
up  toward  high  C,  "I've  got  a  dollar  Mis'  Murchison 
paid  me  to-day,  but  it  sha'n't  go  toward  nails  nor  shingles 
nuther!  I  don't  want  nothin'  done  to  this  old  hole — not 
a  thing!  Mebbe  your  pa'll  have  the  gumption  to  stir 
round  'n'  try  'n'  be  somebody  after  the  rain's  wet  him 
through,  drippin'  in  through  the  bedroom  roof  a  few 
nights." 

Solly  had  never  seen  M'lancy  so  roused  up  as  she  was 
now.  Generally  when  the  fit  took  her  for  a  new  dress  for 
herself,  or  a  new  suit  of  clothes  for  Alfid,  or  a  melodeon, 
or  some  other  expensive  luxury,  she  stormed  around  for 


182  White   Butterflies. 

a  day  or  two,  and  then  was  content  to  wait,  if  the  sum  re- 
quired was  reasonable,  until  Solly  could  earn  it.  If  what 
she  wanted  was  too  extravagant  to  be  afforded,  some  new 
impression  would  drive  the  old  one  away  very  soon  from 
her  shallow  and  variable  mind;  but  now  the  clatter  kept 
up  for  a  week  at  least,  and  most  of  the  time,  as  Solly 
happened  to  have  no  demand  outside  for  his  labor,  he 
sat  by  the  fire  and  amused  himself  with  piecing  his  bed- 
quilts  while  M'lancy  scolded.  He  had  finally  been  up 
to  Mrs.  Murchison's  himself  and  procured  some  blue 
pieces,  so  that  he  was  well  equipped  for  his  work. 

During  the  last  week  in  October  Mr.  Murchison  went 
away  for  a  visit,  and  as  his  son  was  very  .busy  in  putting 
the  finishing  touches  upon  his  new  house,  Solly  was  en- 
gaged to  go  up  to  the  Murchison  place  every  night  and 
morning  to  do  the  chores.  He  was  just  returning  from 
there  for  his  breakfast  on  a  certain  Monday  morning, 
when,  as  he  approached  his  own  home,  he  saw  signs  of  an 
unusual  disturbance. 

"I  could  set  down  and  bawl,"  whimpered  M'lancy,  as 
her  husband  thrust  his  head  anxiously  in  at  the  door. 
"I'm  clean  used  up!  'Tain't  no  use  tryin'  to  have  nothin'. 
'Tain't  no  use  tryin'  to  be  nobody.  I  ain't  never  goin' 
to  try  no  more." 

"What's  the  matter,  Alfid?"  demanded  the  perplexed 
master  of  the  house,  finding  that  M'lancy  went  right  on 
like  a  mill,  paying  no  heed  to  anything  he  said. 

"Sumpin's  got  in  an'  e't  up  a  lot  o'  ma's  hens,"  replied 
Alfid,  succinctly. 

"Oh,  my!"  moaned  M'lancy.  "Oh,  my!  I  sha'n't  have 
no  egg  money,  nor  no  chicken  money,  nor  nothin'!" 

She  threw  her  apron  over  her  head,  like  the  old  wom- 
an in  "Little  Dorrit,"  and  rocked  back  and  forth,  letting 


"  Solly."  iss 

the  salt  pork  in  the  spider  burn  in  the  abandon  of  her 
grief. 

"It's  too  bad,  I  swan!"  said  Solly,  in  heartfelt  sym- 
pathy, but  rushing  to  rescue  his  breakfast.  "I'm  goin' 
to  have  a  job  o'  huskin'  up  to  Square  Mansfield's  to-day, 
M'lancy.  Mebbe  he'll  give  me  some  hens  for  you.  I'll 
ask  him." 

But  M'lancy's  loss  had  reminded  her  of  all  the  priva- 
tions and  sufferings  which  she  had  ever  been  through, 
and  had  made  her  very  cross.  Solly's  gentle  consolations 
seemed  to  madden  rather  than  soothe  her.  She  sprang 
out  of  her  rocking  chair,  and  confronted  him  with  a 
savage  look  upon  her  face. 

"You'll  git  me  some  hens,  will  you,  Solly  Shedd?  Well, 
you'd  orter  do  something  for  me,  I  think — jest  a  little! 
Lettin'  me  live  in  this  old  shanty,  when  you  pretend  to 
think  so  much  o'  me!  Jest  by  turnin'  over  your  hand, 
you  might  git  a  nice  house  for  Alfid  'n'  me.  You  might 
git  a  pension,  same  as  old 'Luke  Travers  got  one — he 
wa'n't  in  the  war  near  so  long  as  you  was,  nuther — an' 
there  you  set  from  mornin'  till  night  an'  sew  your  old 
bedquilts,  an'  let  the  rain  drip  through  on  to  Alfid  'n' 
me!  You'd  orter  be  trounced,  Solly  Shedd!  That's  what 
you'd  orter  be!" 

M'lancy,  somewhat  relieved,  fell  back  into  her  rocking 
chair  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Alfid,  apparently 
quite  impassive,  ate  away  industriously  at  his  breakfast, 
which  Solly  had  "dished  up"  while  his  wife  was  talking, 
and  which  he  too  was  now  partaking  of,  as  though  he 
did  not  know  what  else  to  do,  but  with  a  harried, 
wretched  expression  upon  his  face.  The  echoes  of  her 
own  voice  were  all  the  reply  vouchsafed  to  M'lancy's  im- 
passioned outburst/ and  presently  she  too,  after  a  few 


184  White   Butterflies. 

vague  mutterings,  drew  up  her  chair  beside  her  hus- 
band's, and  joined  forces  with  him  and  Alfid.  They 
were  late  in  getting  through  their  meal,  and  as  Alfid  had 
a  long  walk  to  school,  he  started  presently  on  his  way 
thither,  carrying  his  dinner-pail,  filled  carefully  by  his 
own  industrious  forethought.  Then  Solly  took  his  leave 
for  the  field  of  his  husking  labors,  giving  his  wife  a 
feeble,  nerveless  good-bye  as  he  passed  her;  but  M'lancy 
made  him  no  response.  She  was  very  "mad."  Solly,  in 
his  gentle,  loving  soul,  had  no  idea  how  very  "mad"  she 
was. 

There  was  a  train  which  left  Carley  at  two  o'clock. 
M'lancy  had  found  out  this  morning  what  it  was  when 
anguish,  or  very  marked  ill-temper,  "to  a  Pythian  height 
dilates  you,  and  despair  sublimes  to  power."  Something 
had  occurred  to  her  by  means  of  which  she  might  "apply 
the  screws"  to  Solly.  It  was  indeed  a  desperate  step, 
and  one  which  under  ordinary  conditions  M'lancy  would 
have  been  too  stupid  and  too  lazy  and  too  timid  to  un- 
dertake. But  just  now  she  was  roused  out  of  her  usual 
sluggishness  of  thought  and  action.  She  "flew  around," 
and  did  a  generous  "bakin';"  collected  all  the  available 
funds  of  the  family — several  dollars,  part  of  an  accumu- 
lation making  just  now  for  the  purchase  of  a  barrel  of 
flour — put  on  her  best  clothes,  packed  a  clumsy  old- 
fashioned  satchel  with  her  other  belongings,  set  the 
table  for  dinner,  and  then,  almost  without  a  pang,  in  the 
intensity  of  her  slow-burning  wrath,  started  for  the  rail- 
road station  in  time  to  catch  the  two-o'clock  train.  She 
chose  all  of  the  wood  paths  and  back  roads  for  her  route 
to  the  station,  and  succeeded  in  getting  there  without 
seeing  anybody  who  cared  to  ask  her  any  questions.  No- 
body took  any  special  notice  of  her  as  she  bought  her 


Solly.' 


185 


ticket,  waited  a  few  moments,  and  presently  moved  away 
on  the  train.  M'lancy  had  gone. 

That  night,  when  Solly  reached  home  after  his  day's 
husking,  he  brought  with  him  two  fine  hens  for 'M'lancy. 
She  might  forget  him  and  his  blue  pieces,  but  he  never 
forgot  her  little  wants.  Her  large  ones  were  too  large 
for  poor  Solly  to  grasp,  but  Heaven  knew  that  he  would 
have  gratified  them  if  he  could.  His  homely,  honest  face, 
half  covered  with  stubbly  yellow  beard,  was  all  alight  now 
as  he  came  into  the  yard,  thinking  of  the  pleasure  which 
he  was  going  to  give  M'lancy.  The  hens  were  Plymouth 
Rocks,  just  the  kind  that  she  liked  best.  He  walked 
through  the  house.  The  fire  in  the  kitchen  seemed  to  be 
freshly  kindled,  but  nobody  was  visible.  There  was  a 
pounding  in  the  lean-to.  Alfid  was  there  at  work. 

"See  here,  Alfid,"  he  said,  showing  the  hens  at  the 
door  of  the  boy's  "shop";  "ain't  them  fine?  Won't  yer 
ma  be  tickled,  Alfid?  Where  is  she?" 

"I  do'  know,"  returned  Alfid,  looking  up  from  a  rough 
bicycle  which  he  was  fashioning.  "I  come  home  from 
school  'n'  found  the  table  was  set,  but  they  wa'n't  no 
fire.,  I  made  it  up  new.  I  guess  likely  somebody  come 
for  ma  to  work." 

"Likely,"  said  Solly.  He  was  sorry  not  to  be  able 
to  show  the  hens  to  M'lancy  right  away,  but  he  put 
them  now  into  some  shackly  coops  out  in  the  decrepit 
old  barn  behind  the  house,  fed  them,  and  went  in  to  await 
his  wife's  return.  lie  had  learned  to  cook  in  the  army, 
and  in  reality  excelled  M'lancy  in  the  culinary  art, 
though  he  would  not  have  admitted  it.  So  he  and  Alfid 
got  along  well  enough.  As  the  evening  wore  on,  and 
still  she  did  not  come,  they  concluded  that  somebody 


186  White   Butterflies. 

had  been  suddenly  taken  ill,  and  that  she  felt  obliged 
to  stay  all  night  with  the  invalid. 

The  next  morning  a  bright  idea  struck  Alfid.  "If 
ma  was  goin'  off  so,  I  should  think  she  would  'a'  left  a 
letter,"  he  said. 

This  commended  itself  to  Solly,  and  together  he  and 
Alfid  searched  the  kitchen.  From  the  melange  upon 
the  dingy  shelf  on  which  the  family  clock  rested,  a  mis- 
sive was  at  last  extracted.  It  said,  in  M'lancy's  own 
cramped  and  almost  illegible  chirography: 

"I've  gone  off  to  Vermont  to  visit  Cousin  Emly's 
folks.  I  aint  comin  back.  I'm  sick  of  livin  in  a  leaky 
house  an  not  havin  nothin.  When  I  get  tired  of  visitin 
Cousin  Emly's  folks,  I'm  goin  to  git  a  place  to  work. 
If  you  should  ster  round  an  git  a  pension  or  stop  makin 
bedquilts,  an  go  to  earnin,  or  git  a  decent  house  to  live 
in,  mebbe  I'd  come  back,  but  I  wont  till  you  do.  I'll 
send  for  Alfid  when  I  git  a  place  for  him,  but  I  dont 
want  to  see  you." 

M'lancy's  spelling  was  strictly  phonetic,  but  Solly  and 
Alfid  finally  made  it  out.  When  they  had  read  the 
letter  through  in  a  fever-heat  of  impatience,  Alfid  bowed 
his  head  on  his  hands  and  cried  aloud.  Even  he  could 
not  resist  the  feelings  which  were  evoked  in  his  stolid 
breast  by  this  plain  announcement  of  the  breaking  up 
of  the  little  home.  Solly,  white  and  agitated,  leaned 
against  the  wall,  too  weak  and  excited  to  speak.  Then 
he  took  a  sudden  step  forward,  and  lifted  his  poor  be- 
wildered head  as  if  he  would  vindicate  the  sweet,  strong 
manhood  within  him. 

"Alfid,"  he  said,  in  a  decided  way  which  half  startled 
the  boy,  "we  must  git  her  back — we  must  git  her  back 


Solly.' 


187 


as  quick  as  we  can.  We  can't  do  without  her.  You 
won't  leave  me  till  we  git  her  back,  will  you,  Alfid?" 

"No,"  promised  the  boy,  doggedly,  wiping  his  tear- 
stained  face — "no,  papa,  I  won't  leave  you,  an'  I'll  help 
you  git  her  back." 

"I'm  goin'  to  stir  right  round,"  went  on  poor  Solly, 
as  though  the  use  of  M'lancy's  phrases  might  in  some 
way  propitiate  that  offended  deity,  far  away  though 
she  were — "I'm  goin'  to  stir  right  round,  Alfid;  an'  we'll 
tell  everybody  your  ma  has  gone  off  on  a  visit.  She's 
been  kinder  nervous  lately.  I've  noticed  it.  It  was  a 
good  plan  for  her  to  go  off  visitin'  for  a  while.  It'll  do 
her  good,  Alfid.  I'm  goin'  to  stir  round  an'  fix  things 
so  't  she'll  wanter  come  back  pretty  quick." 

The  two  deserted  beings  looked  into  each  other's  eyes 
with  a  new  love  and  tenderness  between  them.  It  was  a 
solemn  compact  which  they  seemed  to  make,  and  Solly 
appeared  to  drink  in  strength  and  will  from  the  feeling 
of  his  son's  co-operation. 

Alfid  went  off  to  school  until  something  definite  should 
come  up  for  him  to  do,  and  Solly  went  straight  to  Squire 
Mansfield.  Everybody  who  saw  him  remarked  upon  his 
altered  appearance.  There  was  a  pathetically  eager  ex- 
pression in  his  dull  eyes.  His  halting  step  seemed 
quicker  and  firmer  than  it  had  ever  been  before.  He 
held  his  head  up — almost  backward — instead  of  hanging 
helplessly  forward  as  usual.  His  face  was  pale  and  re- 
solved, and  his  lips  moved  constantly,  as  though  whis- 
pering words  of  cheer,  beneath  his  stubbly  beard.  If 
M'lancy  had  planned  to  "stir  up"  her  husband,  she  had 
accomplished  her  object. 

After  Solly  had  had  a  little  talk  with  Squire  Mans- 
field, he  went  to  see  the  two  old  soldiers  who  had  served 


188  White   Butterflies. 

with  him  during  the  war,  and  who  knew  all  about  his 
honorable  record.  Both  of  them  were  good-natured 
fellows  who  liked  Solly.  When  he  asked  them  if  they  did 
not  think  he  ought  to  have  a  pension,  both  of  them  said 
yes. 

"You  oughter  had  one  long  ago,"  said  Israel  Warner. 
"Here's  Luke  Travers,  never  served  outside  the  State, 
jest  staid  in  camp,  an'  caught  cold,  an'  had  the  rheumatiz, 
or  somethin'  like  that,  an'  here  he's  drawed  a  big  pension 
these  ten  years." 

"I  s'pose  I  hain't  had  the  cheek,"  confessed  Solly. 
"I'd  lost  my  papers  mostly,  an'  my  knee  allers  was  stiff  a 
little,  you  know." 

"Waal,"  said  the  shrewd  farmer,  "I  know  all  about 
that  knee  o'  yourn;  I  seen  you  in  the  hospital.  Don't 
harp  on  its  bein'  stiff  when  you  was  little,  any  more'n  you 
have  to.  Some  folks  git  up  petitions  when  they've  lost 
their  papers  an'  things  like  that.  You  can  take  my  horse, 
if  you're  a  mind  ter,  an'  go  round.  Robin  Carter  an'  I'll 
stand  by  you  every  time." 

Solly  took  the  horse  gratefully,  and  went  back  to  the 
Squire,  who  drew  up  a  heading  for  a  petition,  and  also 
some  affidavits  for  Robin  Carter  and  Israel  Warner  to 
sign.  By  the  time  that  poor  Solly  laid  his  head  upon 
his  pillow  that  night,  grief-stricken  as  he  was,  he  was 
not  quite  forlorn.  A  great  hope  was  blossoming  in  his 
true,  unselfish  heart. 

Solly  was  afraid  that  by  the  next  morning  the  old  dis- 
trust of  himself  would  take  possession  of  his  soul,  and 
that  he  should  be  afraid  to  follow  out  the  lines  of  conduct 
which  he  had  laid  out  for  himself;  but,  no!  his  heart  was 
still  full  of  courage  and  determination,  and  he  worked 


Solly."  189 


away  on  his  petition  as  intelligently  as  the  very  "smart- 
est" man  in  Carley  could  have  done. 

By  the  end  of  the  third  day  the  Squire  thought  that 
all  was  done  which  was  necessary,  and  he  sent  the  budget 
off  to  Washington,  with  a  few  cautiously  hopeful  words 
to  Solly,  which  made  the  poor  fellow's  heart  beat  almost 
to  suffocation. 

Every  day  now  he  felt  the  same  courage  and  strength 
which  had  nerved  him  ever  since  he  had  read  M'lancy's 
taunting  letter.  It  seemed  as  though  nothing  could  be 
too  hard  for  him  to  undertake  in  order  to  get  her  back. 

When  the  budget  had  started  for  Washington  in  the 
mail,  Solly  went  up  to  see  Mr.  Murchison. 

"You  don't  charge  me  much  for  that  house  of  our'n, 
Mr.  Murchison,"  he  said,  briskly,  "but  it  leaks  dreadful. 
I  think  it'll  cost  me  'most  as  much  to  fix  it  up  decent 
as  it  would  to  build  a  new  one,  an'  it  wouldn't  never 
be  nothin'  but  an  old  one  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
Now  there's  that  lot  I  cleared.  You  know  you  said 
I  might  have  the  wood  from  it  if  I'd  get  it  away.  I've 
been  thinkin'  that  would  be  a  good  place  for  a  house." 

"Well,  well,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Murchison,  who  was  a 
good-hearted,  well-to-do  old  farmer.  He  was  so  much 
surprised  that  he  was  hardly  able  to  catch  his  breath 
at  this  announcement  of  Solly's  temerity. 

"O'  course,  I  couldn't  make  such  a  grand  one  as 
Frank's,"  explained  Solly,  modestly;  "but  M'lancy  an' 
me  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  have  a  new  house.  I've 
got  a  few  weeks  now  when  I  ain't  drove,  an'  I  might 
work  on  it,  Alfid  an'  me." 

"That  would  be  very  fine,  Solly,"  said  the  old  man, 
looking  out  inquiringly  at  Solly's  excited,  working  face 
from  under  beetling  gray  eyebrows.  "Very  nice,"  he 


190  White   Butterflies. 

repeated;    "but,    like   everything   else,    Solly,    it   costs 
money." 

"How  much  would  you  charge  me  for  the  piece  o' 
wood  lot?"  demanded  Solly,  with  more  manliness  in  his 
tone  than  Mr.  Murchison  had  imagined  that  he  pos- 
sessed. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  be  hard  on  you,  Solly.  I'm  glad  to 
see  you're  tryin'  to  do  something  for  yourself.  Well, 
call  it  twenty  dollars,  and  you  can  pay  me  for  it  as  you 
can  work  it." 

"That's  all  I've  got,  sir,"  said  Solly,  but  without  any 
of  his  old  hang-dog  expression.  "I  ain't  got  no  cash, 
but  I  can  work  it  out.  I'm  obleeged  to  you,  Mr.  Murchi- 
son— very  much  obleeged." 

"I'll  have  the  deed  made  out  right  away,"  said  the 
old  man,  half  facetiously.  His  heart  was  touched  by 
Solly's  look  and  tone. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  obleeged  to  you!"  cried  Solly,  with  real 
enthusiasm. 

"And  you  want  to  begin  pretty  soon?"  inquired  Mr. 
Murchison,  waiving  Solly's  thanks,  kindly. 

"I'm  goin'  to  begin  to-morrer,  Mr.  Murchison,"  he 
answered,  decidedly.  "It's  Saturday,  an'  Alfid  can  help 
me.  You  see" — coloring  up  a  little,  for  Solly  was  as 
honest  as  the  day — "you  see,  M'lancy  she's  off  to  Ver- 
mont visitin',  an'  I'd  like  to  surprise  her  against  she 
comes  back." 

"I'm  older'n  I  was  once,  Solly,"  said  Mr.  Murchison, 
"but  maybe  I'll  come  round  an'  help  you  a  little  speck. 
Frank's  house  is  all  done  but  some  of  the  inside  work, 
an'  I  can  come  an'  help  you  as  well  as  not.  I'd  right 
down  like  to,"  he  added,  smothering  Solly's  delighted 
acknowledgments. 


«  Solly, 


191 


Solly  went  at  once  to  the  wood  lot,  which  was  about 
half  way  between  his  old  home  and  the  railroad  station, 
and  with  a  three-foot  measure  and  a  piece  of  string  he 
staked  out  painfully  the  limits  of  the  little  cellar  which 
he  planned  to  dig.  By  the  next  night  he  and  Mr. 
Murchison  and  Alfid  had  dug  a  trench  all  around  the 
cellar,  and  a  deep  one  through  the  middle. 

"This  woodland  needs  a  sight  o'  dreenin',"  Solly  had 
said.  "M'lancy  ketches  cold  awful  easy,  an'  I  hain't  goin' 
to  have  nothin'  damp  about  our  cellar,  I  can  tell  you." 

On  Monday — not  to  Mr.  Murchison's  surprise,  for  he 
had  planned  it,  but  very  much  to  Solly's — six  of  Jthe  vil- 
lage men  came  around  with  their  shovels,  and  asked  Solly 
if  he  didn't  want  some  help.  By  night  the  little  cellar 
was  dug,  and  a  firm  stone  wall  was  built  nearly  around  it. 

"Mr.  Reynolds  is  gettin'  out  a  lot  o'  timber  for  me 
down  at  the  mill,"  remarked  Mr.  Murchison  to  Solly,  as 
he  was  turning  homeward  that  night.  "You  might  as 
well  have  it  as  anybody;  I'll  trust  you,  I  guess.  I've  told 
him  to  fetch  it  around  here  to-morrow." 

Solly  looked  at  his  friend,  dumb  with  excess  of  feel- 
ing. "Now  you're  too  good,  Mr.  Murchison,  I  swanny 
you- be!"  exclaimed  Solly,  with  tears  rising  to  his  dull 
blue  eyes. 

Young  Frank  Murchison  drew  up  beside  his  father 
and  Solly  just  then.  He  was  in  a  long  wagon,  in  which 
he  had  been  carrying  supplies  to  his  new  house.  He 
felt  happy  and  generous,  as  a  prospective  bridegroom 
should. 

"When  you  come  to  want  your  doors  and  sashes, 
let  me  know,  Solly.  I  got  out  a  good  deal  more  of  such 
stuff  than  I  needed,  and  I'd  be  glad  to  let  you  have  some 
of  it  for  nothing." 


192  White   Butterflies. 

/ 

The  village  storekeeper  was  sitting  in  Frank's  wagon. 
"I've  ordered  a  keg  of  nails  for  you,  Solly,"  he  said;  "and 
I  want  to  help  you  about  door-handles  and  locks  and 
hinges  when  you  come  to  them.  You've  been  a  good 
customer  cf  mine  for  nigh  on  to  twenty  years  now, 
Solly,  and  you've  always  paid  your  bills.  I'd  like  to 
chip  in  with  the  rest." 

To  say  that  Solly  was  overcome  with  these  heaped-up 
benefits  is  a  very  mild  way  of  putting  the  case.  M'lancy 
was  gone,  but  at  this  rate  Solly  felt  that  she  would  soon 
be  back  again. 

When  people  came  to  think  about  it,  everybody  dis- 
covered that  he  liked  Solly.  As  he  had  lived  his  honest, 
plodding  Iffe  among  them  from  day  to  day,  no  special 
occasion  had  arisen  for  displaying  this  liking;  but  now 
an  occasion  had  arisen.  Solly  wanted  a  new  house, 
and  his  neighbors  were  bent  on  helping  him  to  get 
one. 

Soon  there  was  a  "raisin'  "  in  the  wood  lot.  Early  in 
the  morning  and  late  in  the  evening  Solly  was  at  work 
on  the  new  house.  He  might  not  be  able  to  "carpenter" 
as  well  as  Mr.  Reynolds,  but  he  did  his  best  in  this 
emergency.  The  fever  of  his  haste  to  "surprise  M'lancy" 
infected  everybody.  There  was  rarely  an  hour  in  the  day 
when  some  neighbor  was  not  "chippin'  in,"  as  the  Car- 
ley  people  expressed  it,  to  help  Solly. 

Two  weeks  from  the  day  when  M'lancy  had  deserted 
her  home,  the  roof — a  good,  tight  one — was  on  a  new 
house  for  her.  In  fact,  the  new  clapboards  were  mostly 
on,  and  Solly,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  could  "begin  to  see 
his  way  through,"  and  his  heart  beat  high  with  hope. 
As  in  the  old  Persian  poem,  the  lover,  with  every  stroke 
of  the  long  work  which  he  was  fated  to  do,  cried,  "Alas, 


Solly."  193 


Shireen!"  so,  with  every  nail  that  poor  Solly  had  driven 
in  this  tiny  new  mansion  of  his,  he  had  cried,  "It's  for 
M'lancy!" 

"When  the  plasterin's  on,"  he  said  to  Alfid,  "I'm 
a-goin'  to  write  her  a  letter,  an'  tell  her  to  come  home 
an'  see  what  we've  been  a-doin'.  I  mean  to  make  her 
feel  some  cur'osity,  Alfid." 

Nobody  knew  how  Solly's  brain  reeled  as  he  regarded 
the  progress  which  had  been  made  upon  his  new  house. 
Every  morning,  as  he  hurried  feverishly  down  to  the 
wood  lot,  he  expected  to  find  that  there  was  nothing 
there — that  his  house  was  but  the  baseless  fabric  of  a 
vision.  But  no,  it  stood  there  still,  cheap  and  clumsy 
to  the  eyes  of  an  experienced  architect,  but  palatial  to 
poor  Solly's. 

At  the  close  of  a  certain  day,  the  "plasterin'  "  being 
nearly  done,  Solly  and  Alfid — whose  school  had  been  a 
good  deal  neglected  since  the  house  came  on,  a  boy  be- 
ing in  great  demand  at  the  wood  lot — were  making  their 
weary  way  homeward,  when  Squire  Mansfield  drove  up 
behind  them  at  a  furious  pace. 

"Jump  in,  Solly;  jump  in,  Alfid,"  he  cried,  joyously. 
"I've  got  good  news  for  you.  It  seems  that  your  old 
request  for  a  pension  had  just  come  up  on  the  calendar 
when  the  new  one  was  brought  in.  It  wasn't  likely  the 
old  one  would  have  amounted  to  much,  but  with  the 
new  one  on  top  of  it,  every  respectable  man  in  town 
backing  you  up,  as  I  might  say,  we've  carried  the  day. 
You've  got  your  pension,  and  there's  about  a  thousand 
dollars  back  pay." 

"What?"  gasped  Solly,  climbing  feebly  into  the  car- 
riage, and  almost  toppling  over  as  he  heard  the  squire's 
words. 
13 


194  White   Butterflies. 

That  gentleman  repeated  himself,  in  even  more  ex- 
plicit terms  than  before. 

"I'm  much  obleeged  to  you,  I'm  sure,  Square,"  Solly 
said  at  last.  The  gratitude  which  he  had  felt  during  the 
last  few  weeks,  as  he  had  never  had  occasion  to  use  that 
commodity  in  bulk  before,  was  almost  killing  him. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  house  to  eat  when  Solly  and 
Alfid  reached  home  but  some  crackers  and  cheese  from 
the  store,  some  vegetables,  and  some  pork.  Solly  had 
ceased  his  day's  work  upon  the  house  only  twice  since 
he  had  begun  it,  to  earn  money  for  the  current  expenses 
of  Alfid  and  himself. 

He  did  not  want  to  get  too  deeply  in  debt.  Now  he 
wished  he  had  laid  in  a  greater  stock  of  provisions,  but 
he  would  do  that  before  M'lancy  came  home.  He  ate 
some  crackers  and  cheese,  and  then  sat  down  to  compose 
his  letter,  while  Alfid  puttered  over  the  stove,  getting 
himself  up  a  more  elaborate  repast. 

Solly's  letter,  the  joint  production  of  Alfid's  and  his 
own  intellects,  ran  as  follows: 

"We  wanter  to  see  you  awful  bad.  Alfid  and  me 
have  missed  you  awful  bad.  It  most  seems  as  if  you 
hadnt  orter  have  gone  so  sudden" — this  was  the  only 
word  of  reproach  that  patient  Solly  allowed  himself.  "We 
want  you  to  hurry  and  come  home,  They's  news  for 
you.  Youll  be  surprised,  and  Alfid  and  me  think  youll 
like  it.  I'm  all  stirred  up.  My  head  feels  awful  bad 
sometimes,  I'm  so  stirred  up.  Hurry  and  come  home  to 
Alfid  and  me.  Your  loving  Solly." 

It  would  be  useless  to  try  to  picture  M'lancy 's  coun- 
tenance as  she  spelled  out  her  husband's  letter.  She 
was  plunged  into  a  condition  bordering  upon  lunacy,  her 


« Solly."  195 

only  clear  convictions  being  that  Solly  really  had  news 
for  her — agreeable  news — and  that  she  must  start  at 
once  for  home. 

To  this  course  "Cousin  Em'ly  and  her  folks"  were 
amply  resigned.  M'lancy  had  never  been  a  favorite 
among  her  relatives.  She  never  received  special  invi- 
tations to  pay  them  visits,  and  Cousin  Em'ly  had  been 
pondering  for  days  upon  some  means  of  getting  rid  of 
her  obnoxious  guest,  whose  visit  seemed  destined  to 
last  all  winter.  She  hailed  with  alacrity  the  present  crisis 
therefore,  and  all  her  resources  were  brought  into  play 
to  get  M'lancy  to  the  railroad  station  in  time  to  take  the 
very  next  train  for  home.  Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
second  day  after  Solly  had  sent  his  letter,  she  alighted  at 
the  station  in  Carley. 

There  had  been  nobody  on  the  train  whom  she  knew, 
or  else  she  would  have  inquired  concerning  the  welfare 
of  her  family,  and  thus  perhaps  have  received  some  hint 
of  that  "news"  of  which  Solly  had  spoken. 

The  station  agent  nodded  pleasantly  to  her  as  she  lum- 
bered down  from  the  cars  with  her  satchel.  She  did  not 
know  him  very  well,  and  a  sudden  feeling  of  shame 
came  over  her  as  she  realized  that  everybody  might  know 
by  this  time  how  she  had  run  away  from  home.  She 
thought  she  would  not  say  a  word  to  him,  but  he  did 
not  wait  for  her  to  ask  him  any  questions.  Just  as  she 
was  hurrying  past  him  he  sang  out,  good-humoredly : 

"Hullo,  M'lancy!  You  and  Solly  have  come  to  your 
luck  at  last,  hain't  you?" 

"Come  to  their  luck  at  last"?    What  did  he  mean? 

It  was  a  wonder  that  M'lancy  did  not  stop  then  and 
there,  and  demand  a  full  explanation  of  his  words  from 
him.  But  something  kept  her  silent. 


196  White   Butterflies. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  coloring  up,  and  with  a  nervous  little 
laugh — "yes,  we  have." 

She  stumbled  along  the  road  as  fast  as  she  could,  past 
the  few  houses  near  the  station,  then  into  the  woods 
which  intervened  before  the  next  little  group  of  dwellings. 

Suddenly  she  came  upon  the  cleared  space  in  Mr. 
Murchison's  wood  lot.  There  had  been  nothing  upon 
it  when  M'lancy  had  left  Carley  little  more  than  three 
weeks  ago,  but  now  a  little  house  stood  there  nearly 
completed.  Men  were  bustling  in  and  out  of  the  doors. 
There  was  a  sound  of  pounding  and  scraping  from  within 
it.  Things  were  not  usually  managed  with  such  rapidity 
as  this  in  Carley.  What  did  it  mean?  M'lancy  dropped 
her  satchel,  and  gazed  upon  the  phenomenon  open- 
mouthed.  Suddenly  Alfid  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Oh,  ma! — oh,  ma!"  he  cried,  joyously.  He  started 
to  come  to  her.  Then  he  turned  back  toward  the  house. 
"I  wanter  tell  pa  you've  come!"  he  shouted. 

M'lancy  picked  up  her  satchel  again,  and  trudged 
toward  the  unfinished  door.  Solly  was  shuffling  along  to 
meet  her,  his  hat  upon  the  back  of  his  head,  his*  whole 
plain  face  glorified  with  his  delight.  He  extended  his 
arms  toward  her,  when  suddenly  he  seemed  to  trip  upon 
a  pile  of  rubbish  which  stood  between  them,  and  fell 
heavily  forward  at  her  feet.  She  waited  a  moment,  with 
a  broad  smile  upon  her  face,  but  he  did  not  rise.  Then 
she  saw  that  a  stream  of  blood  was  flowing  from  his 
mouth. 

Screaming  for  help,  she  sat  down  upon  the  heap  of 
shavings  and  broken  scantling  over  which  he  had  fallen, 
and  took  his  head  in  her  lap.  As  he  did  so,  the  loving 
touch  for  which  his  soul  had  longed  seemed  to  revive 
him,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  feebly. 


« Solly."  197 

"I  ain't  pieced  none  sence  you  went  away,  M'lancy," 
he  whispered.  "You  needn't  be  afraid,  I  ain't  goin'  to 
never  do  it  no  more." 

"Oh,  you  may,  Solly!"  sobbed  M'lancy,  her  hateful- 
ness  banished  by  the  sight  of  the  pale  face  in  her  lap, 
and  possibly  somewhat  mitigated  also  by  the  spectacle 
of  this  mysterious  new  house.  "You  may  piece  bedquilts 
all  day,  if  yer  wanter,  Solly." 

But  poor  Solly  never  spoke  again. 

M'lancy  tried  to  think  that  it  was  the  fall  which  had 
killed  him — that  he  had  stumbled  in  full  possession  of 
his  faculties;  but  the  doctor  said: 

"No;  it  was  a  case  of  apoplexy.  He  fell  because  every- 
thing turned  black  before  his  eyes,  and  his  strength  de- 
parted." 

Yes,  it  had  been  too  much  for  poor  Solly,  this  "stirrin' 
round  to  try  to  be  smarter,"  and  to  "git  M'lancy  back." 


Tid's  Wife. 


\\  THEN  "Tid"  came  into  the  Tom  Lake  Range:  he 
\f  V  had  but  one  acquaintance  in  the  settlement 
there.  This  was  a  man  whose  name  was  really 
Peter  Brown,  but  from  "Pete"  his  habits  of  universal 
curiosity  had  gradually  changed  it  to  "Peek" — and  as 
"Peek"  Brown  he  is  forever  distinguished  in  the  annals 
of  the  place.  "Peek"  had  known  "Tid"  over  on  the 
Wisconsin  side,  where  his  steady  attention  to  business, 
lack  of  "luck,"  and  uncommunicativeness  had  made  him 
a  marked  and  mysterious  character. 

"What's  his  name,  anyhow,  Peek?"  asked  Handy  Gra- 
ham, one  of  the  old  settlers. 

"How  should  I  know?"  demanded  Peek  impatiently. 
"He  ainrt  the  sort  o'  chap  to  tell  his  affairs  to  everybody. 
They  did  say  over  thar — mind  ye,  'twas  only  'say' — 
that  his  last  name  was  'Slocum;'  but  the  Tid'  part,  by 
,  that's  too  deep  for  me!" 

"Likely  it's  short  fer  Timothy,"  suggested  Handy, 
speculatively. 

"'Timothy!'"  Mr.  Brown  gazed  at  his  companion 
as  though  he  suspected  his  sanity.  "Short  fer  that's 
Tim.'  Didn't  ye  know  that?" 

Peek's  manner  was  overbearing,  and  Handy  did  not  at- 
tempt to  push  his  case,  or  to  advance  a  further  theory 
which  had  its  origin  in  a  certain  sarcastic  streak  in  his 
nature,  and  which  derived  Tid  from  "tidbit,"  Tid  being 
almost  a  giant  in  stature.  And  thus  it  happened  that  Tid 
came  to  be  unquestioningly  accepted  throughout  the 
19* 


Tid's  Wife.  199 

Tom  Lake  settlement  as  "Tid,"  and  nothing  else,  until 
a  certain  day,  when  the  "Slocum"  postulate  received 
absolute  confirmation. 

That  day  was  one  of  great  excitement  on  the  Tom 
Lake  Range.  In  order  to  understand  this  excitement 
in  all  its  bearings,  we  must  premise  that  among  the  hun- 
dred and  fifty-odd  denizens  of  the  little  mushroom  village 
there  were  but  half-a-dozen  women.  One  of  these  was 
the  wife  of  "Old  Bill,"  the  veteran  of  the  place.  She 
was  old  and  infirm,  and  seldom  seen  beyond  her  cabin 
door.  Another  was  a  staid  and  respectable  matron,  the 
mother  of  a  row  of  sturdy  urchins,  and  the  wife  of  Jack 
Peabody,  known  as  "Copper-bottom  Jack,"  who  had 
amassed  a  moderate  fortune  by  mining  and  speculating, 
and  talked  of  "retiring"  before  long.  The  other  four 
women  resided  at  "Gulick's" — a  long,  low  shanty  of  the 
general  character  of  a  hotel,  and  with  a  barroom  attach- 
ment, which,  in  point  of  earnings,  quite  eclipsed  all  the 
rest.  Mrs.  Gulick  was  a  weak  but  well-meaning  woman, 
while  of  Bridget  and  Jane,  the  kitchen  girls,  and  of 
"Lize,"  the  tawdry  barmaid,  perhaps  the  less  said  the 
better. 

As  the  winter  and  spring  wore  away,  Tid  was  ob- 
served to  be  fixing  up  his  already  comfortable  "shanty" 
a  good  deal,  and  then  he  disappeared  for  a  full  month. 
May  was  well  along,  and  the  straits  were  open,  when  he 
reappeared,  riding  in  on  the  Houghton  stage  straight 
from  Detroit,  via  the  "Soo,"  in  company  with  a  woman 
— a  young  woman — a  pretty  woman — whom  he  intro- 
duced to  the  stage-driver  and  the  one  or  two  passengers 
whom  he  knew  as  "My  wife,  Mis'  Slocum." 

Now,  Tid,  though  possessed  of  sterling  and  acknowl- 
edged virtues,  had  not  had  generally  accredited  to  him 


200  White   Butterflies. 

the  power  of  captivating  the  female  sex.  "Lize"  and 
"Jane"  had  unmercifully  made  fun  of  him,  and  it  was 
commonly  supposed  that  he  cared  as  little  about  women 
as  the  representatives  of  the  softer  sex  at  Tom  Lake  cared 
about  him.  Consequently,  as  the  stage  conveyed  Tid  and 
his  bride  to  their  humble  home,  the  "residents"  to  a  man 
surveyed  the  sight  with  open-mouthed  wonder. 

"Darned  ef  he  hain't  took  us  in  like  thunder!"  said 
Peek  Brown,  who  had  suspected  nothing,  and  owned  up 
to  the  oversight  like  a  man. 

"She  looks  like  consid'able  of  a  gal."  This  was  Gu- 
lick's  opinion,  and  fell  with  weight. 

"What  you  good-lookin'  fellers  doin',"  said  Handy 
Graham,  poking  Dan  Morey,  the  handsomest  man  in  the 
place,  facetiously  in  the  ribs,  "lettin'  a  chap  like  Tid 
get  ahead  of  ye  like  this?" 

The  idea  of  Tid's  coming  out  in  advance  of  Dan  in 
such  a  contest  was  indeed  absurd,  and  made  the  good- 
natured  miners  laugh.  Enormously  tall,  large  and  ill- 
built,  with  a  gait  like  an  elephant's,  a  hanging  head,  a 
shock  of  tawny  hair  and  whisker,  dull  blue  eyes,  and  a 
mouth  always  full  of  tobacco  juice — there  was  certainly 
nothing  attractive  about  Tid;  while  Dan,  tall,  straight, 
with  curling  hair  and  beard,  and  a  bearing  like  a  king's 
— Dan  Morey,  though  not  implicitly  to  be  trusted,  was 
certainly  the  sort  of  man  in  his  appearance  of  whom 
women  are  traditionally  fond. 

"I  see  her,"  said  Dan,  sententiously,  "and,  by !  she 

is  harnsum." 

In  reality,  Mrs.  Tid  Slocum  was  simply  a  good-looking, 
healthy  and  well-built  young  woman  of  twenty-five  or 
thereabout;  but  to  the  rough  men  of  the  place,  who  had 
nothing  at  hand  to  compare  with  her  but  the  senile  wife 


Tid's  Wife.  201 

of  "Old  Bill,"  the  faded  and  flavorless  charms  of  Mrs. 
Peabody  and  Mrs.  Gulick,  and  the  slatternly  pertness  of 
the  "girls"  at  Gulick's,  she  seemed  a  species  of  angel,  as, 
in  her  dark  print  gown,  with  a  collar — a  veritable,  shin- 
ing, white  linen  collar — her  hair  neatly  brushed  and 
wound  about  her  head,  and  a  mien  that  commanded  re- 
spect, she  took  up  her  daily  life  among  the  disorderly  in- 
habitants of  her  husband's  adopted  home.  Numerous 
theories  were  hazarded  as  to  the  mystery  of  her  accept- 
ance of  Tid,  but  no  satisfactory  conclusion  was  ever 
reached,  and,  like  the  agitation  in  regard  to  her  husband's 
name,  this  also  subsided,  and  the  fact  was  gradually  ac- 
cepted as  stubborn  but  irrefragable. 

Mrs.  Jack  Peabody,  except  for  now  and  then  "running 
in"  to  see  "Old  Bill's"  wife,  did  not  consider  it  expedient 
for  her  to  recognize  socially  the  other  women  of  the  set- 
tlement. After  weighing  the  matter  for  a  fortnight,  how- 
ever, and  having  watched  Mrs.  Slocum  approvingly  in 
her  daily  peregrinations  between  the  grocery  and  her 
home,  she  mentally  decided  the  important  question, 
"Ought  we  to  visit  her?"  in  the  affirmative.  Accordingly, 
the  very  next  day,  arrayed  in  a  well-preserved  black 
alpaca  dress,  and  after  a  period  of  trying  indecision  be- 
tween a  faded  straw  bonnet,  elegant  a  decade  before,  and 
a  marvellous  new  slatted  sun-bonnet  of  her  own  manu- 
facture and  of  recent  date,  she  donned  the  latter  article 
and  made  a  state  call  upon  Mrs.  Slocum. 

While  there But  Mrs.  Peabody's  own  graphic  de- 
scription, given  later  to  her  faithful  spouse,  covers  the 
ground  much  better  than  any  other  could  possibly  do. 
"I  set- down,"  said  Mrs.  Peabody,  "an'  I  sez" — Mrs.  Pea- 
body  had  been  born  in  the  State  of  Maine,  and  East  and 
West  battled  for  the  victory  among  her  idioms — "I  sez, 


202  White   Butterflies. 

sez  I,  'You  come  quite  unexpected  like,'  sez  I,  'but,' 
sez  I,  'I'm  sure  we're  glad  ter  see  yer,'  sez  I.  'Thar  ain't 
much  time  fer  sercierty  ter  Tom  Lake,'  sez  I.  'No,'  sez 
she,  an'  she  talked  along  a  spell,  quiet  an'  purty  enough, 
when,  aller  a  suddent,  I  heerd  a  voice  say,  kinder  gentle 
V  pleasant-like — couldn't  ermagine  whoser  'twas — 
'Lucy,  say,  whar  be  yer?'  'n'  she  jumps  up,  'n'  sez  she, 
quite  perlite,  'Erxcuse  me,  my  husband's  a-callin'  me,' 
'n' — do  yer  believe  it? — that  was  Tid  a-callin',  soft  'n' 
sweet — ye'd  never  'a  s'posed  in  yer  life  't  he  could  'a 
made  sech  a  little  noise  ef  he'd  'a  tried.  Wai,  thar's  a 
keyhole  in  the  door,  'n'  I  jumped  up  'n'  jest  kinder 
happened  ter  git  in  the  line  o'  that  yer  keyhole — w'at  yer 
laffin'  at? — 'n'  that  Tid  he  kissed  her,  'n'  I  see  him  kinder 
smooth  her  hair  back  from  her  face,  'n'  he  kinder  whis- 
pered to  her  what'd  she  been  a-doin',  'n'  who  was  in  thar, 
'n'  she  said,  'A-visitin'  with  Mis'  Jack  Peabody' — 'n'  all 
these  goin's  on,  his  kissin'  her,  'n'  all — that  great,  humbly 
thing — she  acshally  'peared  ter  like  it!  'N'  ef  he  don't 
jest  worship  her,  I  ain't  no  prophet." 

Mrs.  Peabody's  notion  of  the  functions  of  a  prophet 
was  somewhat  vague,  but  she  evidently  understood  a 
good  deal  of  human  nature.  Her  narrative  had  been 
heard  and  repeated  by  everybody  in  the  place  before  a 
week  passed  away,  and  Tid  suddenly  found  himself 
treated  with  unwonted  consideration.  The  man  who 
could  caress  a  young  woman  like  Mrs.  Tid  Slocum,  and 
have  her  "  'pear  ter  like  it,"  was  unmistakably  no  com- 
mon character,  and  his  claims  were  respected  the  more 
deeply  because  he  made  no  pretensions  on  account  of  his 
superiority.  There  was  the  same  swing  to  his  awkward 
gait,  the  same  impassive  look  in  his  dull  eye,  the  same 
strict  attention  to  business.  Only  now — impressive 


Tid's  Wife.  203 

change! — the  men  recognized  self-control  in  what  before 
had  been  a  supposed  lack  of  controllable  material. 

A  month  after  Mrs.  Tid  Slocum  had  taken  up  her 
abode  at  the  Lake,  a  troupe  of  strolling  players  came 
along  and  gave  an  entertainment  at  Gulick's  dancing- 
hall,  where  once  or  twice  a  year  a  grand  ball  mingled  the 
society  from  half-a-dozen  neighboring  settlements  with 
that  of  the  Lake.  To  this  entertainment  the  population 
of  the  place  turned  out  en  masse,  and  it  so  chanced 
(though  there  was  really  no  chance  about  it)  that  the  seat 
next  to  Mrs.  Tid  Slocum  was  picked  out  and  persistently 
occupied,  even  when  the  rest  went  out  to  refresh  them- 
selves during  the  entr'actes,  by  Mr.  Daniel  Morey — not 
the  ordinary,  rough,  good-looking  miner  of  every  day, 
but  a  positive  dandy,  arrayed  in  a  sleek  black  coat  and  a 
starched  white  shirt  front,  in  which  glittered  a  remarkable 
diamond  pin.  His  ambrosial  locks  were  tossed  with  fas- 
cinating grace  from  off  his  forehead,  and  his  moustache 
seemed  to  have  acquired  a  new  distinction.  Mr.  Daniel 
Morey  in  the  long-unaccustomed  costume  and  manners 
of  older  civilizations  yet  carried  both  so  well  that  even 
the  jeers  of  his  companions  were  not  unmixed  with  ad- 
miration, and  could  not  discompose  him.  Whenever 
Mrs.  Slocum  turned  in  his  direction  that  evening,  she  en- 
countered a  pair  of  melting  masculine  eyes  fixed  full  upon 
her,  and,  though  she  rather  shrank  away  toward  Tid  and 
maintained  outward  calm,  yet  the  admiration  of  so  dis- 
tinguished an  individual  could  hardly  have  been  lost  upon 
her. 

The  weeks  wore  away,  and  it  began  to  be  whispered 
about  among  the  miners  that  Dan  Morey  was  getting 
to  be  a  frequent  visitor  at  Tid  Slocum's  cabin;  but  Tid 
preserved  the  same  imperturbable  demeanor  toward  the 


204  White   Butterflies. 

Adonis  of  the  place  as  toward  everybody  else.  It  was 
rumored  by  some  imaginative  person  that  his  heart  was 
breaking.  But  even  this  blood-curdling  suggestion 
failed  to  throw  any  light  upon  the  situation.  Mrs.  Jack 
Peabody,  however,  who  was  propriety  itself,  resolved 
upon  breaking  the  social  bond  with  which  by  her  visit, 
and,  indeed,  by  a  subsequent  one  also,  she  had  united 
herself  to  the  fair  new-comer,  and  she  consequently  vis- 
ited her  no  more.  So  that  Mrs.  Tid  Slocum,  except  for 
the  unremitting  faithfulness  and  devotion  of  her  husband 
and  occasional  observed  and  more  presumed  calls  from 
Dan  Morey,  must  have  led  a  rather  lonely  life.  But  she 
was  not  one  of  the  kind  to  be  pitied.  She  carried  her 
head  high,  worked  briskly  all  day — no  such  housekeeper 
and  seamstress  had  ever  been  seen  at  the  Lake — and  ap- 
peared not  to  observe  even  the  disapproving  defection  of 
Mrs.  Jack  Peabody. 

Six  months  after  the  bright  spring  day  when  big,  lum- 
bering Tid  Slocum  had  astounded  his  neighbors  by 
bringing  his  bride  among  them,  Dan  Morey  was  miss- 
ing from  his  place  beside  the  genial  fire  at  Gulick's,  and 
"Old  Bill,"  with  whom  he  messed,  could  give  no  account 
of  him.  Tid  Slocum  went  regularly  to  work  every  day, 
but  shortly  after  Dan  Morey  was  missed,  some  one  re- 
marked that  Mrs.  Tid  Slocum  "had  been  keepin'  mighty 
quiet  lately." 

The  temptation  to  investigate  the  mystery  was  too 
much  for  Peek  Brown,  who,  as  soon  as  Tid  started  for 
work  the  next  morning,  stole  up  to  the  back-side  of  his 
little  shanty  and  made  as  thorough  an  examination  as  was 
compatible  with  a  tightly-locked  door  and  uncommuni- 
cative shutters.  Tid  had,  evidently  not  without  a  pur- 
pose, left  behind  him  a  slow  fire,  for  the  chimney  gave  off 


Tid's  Wife.  205 

a  gentle  smoke  all  the  morning.  Peek  determined  to  go 
quite  around  the  house,  even  at  the  risk  of  being  seen, 
for  it  stood  upon  a  knoll  and  close  against  the  hillside. 
Tid  had  put  solid  wooden  shutters  on  every  window  of 
his  stout  little  cabin,  but  they  were  open  in  front,  and 
neat  white  curtains,  hung  shortly  after  Mrs.  Tid's  ar- 
rival, were  adroitly  looped  inside,  so  as  to  suggest  some 
occupancy  of  the  place.  Everything  was  in  profound 
quiet.  The  woman  might  be  ill,  but,  ill  or  well,  Peek  was 
morally  certain  that  she  was  not  there. 

That  night  Tid  went  into  Gulick's,  still  and  unap- 
proachable as  usual,  and  ordered  a  stiff  glass  of  rum- 
and-water.  While  it  was  preparing,  Peek  stepped  up 
and  remarked  drily,  "Wife  ain't  sick,  is  she?  Lef  town?" 
There  was  quite  a  crowd  present,  and  the  answer  to 
Peek's  question  was  awaited  with  breathless  interest. 

Tid  took  up  his  glass  of  rum-and-water  and  drained 
it  at  a  draught,  his  face  meanwhile  growing  whiter  and 
whiter.  Then  he  turned  toward  Peek,  who  instinctively 
began  to  shrink  away  from  him.  His  dull  eyes  emitted 
a  single  sulphurous  flash.  Then  he  gathered  up  his 
brawny  fist  like  lightning,  and  planted  a  tremendous  blow 
in  the  middle  of  his  interrogator's  face.  "Darn  yer  pic- 
ter!"  he  shouted,  in  a  voice  so  hoarse  and  unnatural  that 
none  of  the  men  would  ever  have  recognized  it;  "ef  ye 
speak  of  her,  'n'  mostly  ef  ye  speak  ag'in  her,  I'll  kill 
ye!"  Then  he  turned  sharply,  and  walked  off  to  his 
lonely  cabin.  The  blow  that  he  had  dealt  to  Peek  was 
attended  with  permanent  and  disfiguring  results,  and  Tid 
Slocum's  request  was  ever  after  respected,  at  least  in  his 
presence.  But  his  wife  had  undoubtedly  deserted  him. 

A  year  and  a  half  passed  away,  and  as  spring  opened 
— the  second  spring  after  Tid's  marriage — the  brisk 


206  White   Butterflies. 

sounds  of  reviving  labor  echoed  through  the  Tom  Lake 
settlement.  A  newly-opened  iron  mine  of  untold  rich- 
ness had  been  located  on  the  range,  and  owners  of  land  in 
the  vicinity  had  sold  it  at  a  handsome  advance.  "Old 
Bill"  had  died,  and  Jack  Peabody  had  "sold  out"  and  re- 
turned to  his  native  place  in  New  England  to  begin  life 
again  with  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  his  pocket. 
With  these  vicissitudes,  and  with  the  influx  of  new- 
comers, there  had  been  considerable  change  in  the  little 
settlement;  but  still  Tid  Slocum,  who  had  been  more 
prosperous  perhaps  than  any  of  his  old  mates,  grim  and 
silent  as  ever,  lived  alone  in  his  trim  little  cabin.  His 
"luck"  in  worldly  affairs  had  evidently  "turned,"  and, 
isolated  and  friendless  though  he  was,  he  had  yet  sufficient 
cause  to  congratulate  himself. 

One  night,  the  chill  in  the  evening  air  having  driven 
Gulick's  guests  inside,  they  were  listening  to  the  excit- 
ing revelations  of  one  of  their  comrades  who  had  been 
down  in  Chicago  for  the  winter.  The  narrator  was  de- 
tailing consequentially  some  triflng  personal  adventure, 
when  he  suddenly  broke  off  short,  looked  around  cau- 
tiously, and  exclaimed: 

"But,  Lord,  boys!  I  hain't  told  ye  the  biggest  news  of 
all!  I  seen  Tid's  wife!"  Amazed  ejaculations  broke  from 
one  and  another,  and  the  little  circle  gathered  closer. 
"Yes,"  continued  the  man,  in  the  same  circumspect  man- 
ner, "I  seen  her,  'n'  she  seen  me,  'n'  she  pulled  her  veil 
over  her  face,  and  herried  along.  By  George,  but  she 
looked  's  ef  she  was  poor!"  The  excited  interest  of  his 
hearers  led  the  narrator  into  a  little  display  of  human 
nature,  and  he  began  to  dwell  with  unnecessary  minute- 
ness upon  the  details  of  his  story.  "She  had  a  bundle  in 
her  hands,  like  sewin'-work,  er  suthin  er  other,  'n'  I  fol- 


Tid's  Wife.  2or 

lered  her,  ter  a  number" — and  the  speaker  took  out  a 
notebook,  and  pronounced  the  number  loudly  by  way  of 
corroborating  his  story — "  'n'  then,  bein'  kinder  thirsty, 
I  stepped  inter  a  saloon  close  by,  'n'  a  kinder  good-look- 
in'  feller  he  cum  in,  'n'  we  struck  up  quite  an  acquaint- 
ance; 'n',  bein'  flush,  I  sez,  sez  I,  'I  hope  ye'll  jine  me?' 
'O'  course,'  he  sez;  'don't  care  'f  I  do.'" 

"Wai — Tid's  wife?"  interrupted  an  auditor  impatiently. 

"Good  Lord!"  snapped  the  taleteller,  crossly,  "who's 
a-tellin'  this  story,  anyhow?  Ef  I  ain't " 

"Go  on!  go  on!"  cried  the  crowd,  and  Handy  Graham 
took  hold  of  the  interrupter's  shoulders  with  an  emphatic 
shake  and  a  "You  shut  up!"  which  quite  restored  the 
equilibrium  of  the  injured  hero. 

"After  we'd  treated  back  and  forth  a  few  times,'  I  sez, 
sez  I,  p'intin'  to  the  house  I  seen  Tid's  wife  go  in,  'Know 
'em?'  'Yes,'  sez  he.  'How  'bout  that  woman  't  jest 
went  in?'  sez  I.  'I've  seen  her  often,'  sez  he;  'a  sewin'- 
woman  't  sews  fer  'em — they're  dress-makers,'  sez  he. 
'I  noticed  her,'  sez  he,  'bein'  uncommon  good-lookin' 
'n'  sorter  sad-like.  Know  her?'  'Wai,'  sez  I,  'middlin'. 
Run  away  from  her  husband  up  in  the  mines  with  another 
man.  Hain't  never  seen  no  man  round  with  her,  have 
ye?'  sez  I.  'No,'  sez  he,  'he  must  'a  left  her — fer  I  see  her 
often,  bein'  here  frequent,  'n'  I  hain't  seen  no  man  near 
her  this  winter:  he  must  'a  left  her.'  'He  was  jest  that 
kind,'  sez  I:  I'll  bet  my  pile  he  has  gone  and  left  her.'  " 

At  that  moment  a  muffled  sound  came  from  the  door- 
way, and  Tid  Slocum,  with  the  same  white  face  and  flash- 
ing eyes  that  some  of  the  crowd  remembered  to  have 
seen  once  before,  entered  and  walked  up  to  the  bar.  Peek 
Brown,  who  had  been  among  the  most  absorbed  of  the 
spell-bound  audience  of  a  moment  before,  shrank  to  half 


208  White   Butterflies. 

his  usual  size,  and  hid  behind  his  companions;  but  he 
need  not  have  been  frightened,  for  Tid  simply  ordered  a 
dram,  which  was  served  quietly  to  him  by  the  brazen 
Lize,  and  then  walked  stumblingly  away.  The  next  day 
there  was  silence  and  gloom  in  Tid's  little  cabin,  and  his 
face  did  not  appear  at  Gulick's.  In  fact,  Tid  had 
"vamosed,"  and  the  inhabitants  of  Tom  Lake  village 
never  saw  him  there  again. 

Ten  years  later,  Jack  Peabody  and  his  wife,  whose 
well-earned  wealth  had  been  doubled  and  trebled  by  for- 
tunate investments,  visited  the  opera  in  grand  style  in  one 
of  our  great  Eastern  cities.  The  music  was  fine,  and  Mr. 
Peabody  and  his  wife,  who  had  not  misused  their  recent 
opportunities  for  "culchah,"  were  listening  attentively 
and  with  an  acute  admiration,  when  suddenly  a  couple 
in  an  opposite  box  attracted  Mr.  Peabody's  observant 
eye.  He  raised  his  glass  and  called  his  wife's  attention, 
to  the  objects  of  his  gaze,  whereupon  a  prolonged  scru- 
tiny and  discussion  followed. 

They  saw  a  gaunt,  enormous  man,  with  dull  blue  eyes, 
and  a  mass  of  tawny  hair,  which  had  evidently  been  the 
despair  of  some  unhappy  barber.  He  was  attired  in  a 
rich  but  ill-worn  suit  of  broadcloth,  and  by  his  side  was 
a  woman,  whose  well-featured  face,  expensive  dress,  and 
flashing  jewels  made  her  harmonize  well  with  her  sump- 
tuous surroundings.  She  looked  with  a  calm  interest 
upon  the  scenes  which  were  being  depicted  before  her, 
but  the  man's  rapt  gaze  never  wandered  from  her  face, 
and  to  the  bewildered  pair  who  were  surveying  him  he 
was  a  mute  but  eloquent  statue  of  love,  adoration,  for- 
giveness. 

"Yes,"  whispered  Mr.  Peabody  to  his  wife,  after  a  pro- 
tracted and  earnest  canvass  of  the  question,  "it's  them — 
by  George,  it's  them!" 


«Te  Christmas  Witch? 

A  TRUE  NEW  ENGLAND  STORY  OF  THE  LAST 
CENTURY. 

44  T    TELL  'ee  'at  she  do  dawnce  aroun'  it!" 

Old  Laban  Trewis  opened  wide  his  solemnly  blink- 
ing eyes  as  he  said  this.  His  audience,  the  men  and 
boys  gathered  around  the  fire  at  the  store  of  Mr.  Mellen, 
one  of  the  chief  citizens  of  Fenmarsh  Village,  looked  awe- 
stricken.  Mr.  Mellen  himself,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
had  not  suspected  anything  'so  bad  as  this,  ejaculated, 
"You  don't  mean  to  say  so!" 

"Aw,  she  do!"  pursued  old  Laban,  who,  in  spite  of 
many  years'  residence  in  the  new  world,  still  retained  his 
strong  north-of-England  vernacular.  "She  do  thot!  An' 
they  say  she  do  burn  candles  to  the  front  of  an  image- 
like  when  she  do  say  her  prayers.  Aw,  she  do  be  a 
Papist,  sure!" 

The  old  man  leaned  back,  proud  of  the  attention  which 
had  been  yielded  him,  and  convinced  that  his  case 
was  proven. 

"I  seen  the  bush-like,  out  in  a  big  box,  settin'  to  the 
right  o'  the  door-stone  all  summer,"  drawled  Lysander 
Mingins,  a  young  farmer  from  the  Height-O'-Land  part 
of  the  town.  The  road  by  which  he  usually  entered  the 
village  ran  past  the  small  house,  just  on  the  outskirts  of 
it,  in  which  all  these  strange  events  had  taken  place. 
"I  seen  it,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  didn't  know  nothin'  about 
its  bein'  a  holly-bush." 

14  209 


210  White  Butterflies. 

"You  was  too  young  when  you  come  over,"  said  Mr. 
Mellen,  the  storekeeper.  "You'd  a'  known  a  holly-bush 
if  you'd  a'  lived  long  enough  in  Old  England." 

"Wai,  she  do  dawnce  aroun'  that  holly-bush,"  chir- 
ruped old  Laban  Trewis,  again.  "Fairweather  folks  can 
tell  'ee  of  queer  doin's  enough  over  to  their  side  'e  river. 
It's  bad  luck  for  Fenmarsh  they  ever  coom  here." 

"I  should  think  they'd  find  out  when  they'd  been 
struck  with  lightning  a  few  more  times,  and  when 
they'd  lost  a  few  more  sheep  and  cattle  by  the  foot-rot, — I 
should  think  they'd  find  out  'twa'n't  no  use  goin'  contrary 
to  the  Almighty,"  said  Mr.  Mellen,  solemnly.  "An' 
wa'n't  the  son's  wife  ravin'  crazy  before  she  come  down 
sick  on  her  bed?  That  was  before  they  left  Fairweather, 
wa'n't  it?" 

The  door  opened,  and  a  stately  figure  entered.  There 
was  a  sort  of  a  straightening  up,  and  a  putting  on  of  dig- 
nity among  the  gossiping  group.  It  was  Parson  Bement 
who  was  coming  in — grave,  reverend,  stern.  As  he  closed 
the  door  behind  him,  he  took  off  his  heavy  woolen  cap 
and  shook  the  snow  from  it.  His  high,  narrow  forehead, 
his  small,  cold,  deep-set  eyes,  his  close-shaven,  firm-set 
jaws  showed  him  to  be  a  typical  Puritan.  Parson  Bement 
exacted  his  rights  of  everyone,  and  he  meant  to  do  justice 
to  all;  but  he  felt  that  Papists,  and  other  sects  who  did 
not  interpret  the  Bible  as  he  himself  did,  were  sinners 
against  high  Heaven,  and  that  they  should  be  treated 
accordingly.  If  Parson  Bement  had  lived  in  another 
land  and  in  another  age,  he  might  have  been  that  merci- 
less Abbot,  to  whom  the  fearless  Constance  de  Beverlev. 
aided  even  by  St.  Hilda's  gentle  Abbess,  and  the 
"haughty"  but  relenting  Prioress  of  Tynemouth,  appealed 
in  vain. 


"Yc  Christmas  Witch."        211 

The  parson  saluted  them  all  with  serious  politeness, 
and  made  purchase  at  the  counter  of  a  pound  of  good 
tobacco. 

"And  what  is  the  news  to-night,  good  Master  Mellen?" 
he  asked,  as  his  package  was  handed  to  him. 

"They  was  jest  sayin'  as  how  the  Mistress  Maitland 
have  lost  the  only  good  cow  she  have  left,  sir." 

The  parson  raised  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  shook 
his  head.  The  eight  or  ten  men  and  boys  sitting  on  the 
boxes  and  benches  around  the  fire,  eyed  him  narrowly. 

"And  the  son — is  he  no  better,  Master  Mellen?" 

"Worse,  sir.  He  walks  out,  and  can  shovel  the  paths, 
I  see,  but  he  do  cough  dreadful." 

There  was  a  suggestion  in  the  storekeeper's  tone  that 
it  was  to  be  expected  that  young  Maitland's  cough 
should  be  worse,  and  that,  perhaps,  it  was  just  and  right 
that  it  should  be. 

"I  fear,"  said  Parson  Bement,  in  slow  and  measured 
accents,  "that  the  young  man  will  follow  his  poor  wife 
ere  many  days.  It  may  be  that  this  severe  climate  does 
not  agree  with  them." 

A  grim  smile  played  over  the  parson's  hard  face.  The 
men  laughed  a  little.  Old  Laban  Trewis  seized  this  op- 
portunity for  repeating  what  he  felt  to  be  the  most  im- 
pressive and  sensational  fact  which  had  yet  been  elicited 
concerning  the  Maitlands. 

"I  tell  'ee,  Parson  Bement,"  he  hurried  to  say,  "I  tell 
'ee,  she  be  not  a  right-minded  woman!  She  do  have  a 
holly-bush  in  a  box  in  her  kitchen,  an'  it  do  have  red 
berries  on  it.  I  warrant  she  will  pick  'em  and  hang  'em 
about  her  house  for  'e  Christmas  time  them  Papists  set 
such  store  by — an'  as  I  was  coomin'  by  her  house  to- 
night, I  seen  her,  big  'n  proud  as  she  be — I  seen  her, 


212  White   Butterflies. 

sir — I  seen  her  a-dawncin'  aroun'  her  holly-bush.  I  seen 
her  mysel'  through  the  kitchen-pane." 

The  parson's  features  betrayed  the  keenest  interest,  but 
he  merely  shook  his  head. 

"They  hain't  been  to  meetin',  hev'  they,  sence  they 
come  to  town?"  asked  the  Height-O'-Land  farmer. 

"They  have  not  entered  the  house  of  prayer,  to  my 
knowledge,"  said  the  minister,  oracularly,  "during  the 
two  years  since  they  came  to  Fenmarsh.  My  friend  and 
co-laborer,  Dr.  Dummer,  the  pastor  of  the  Fairweather 
church,  said  that  all  their  losses  and  afflictions  while  in 
his  parish  did  not  seem  to  soften  their  hearts.  If  they 
prayed  at  all,  it  was  by  forms  and  in  their  own  apart- 
ments. They  never  worshipped  with  God's  people.  I 
could  not  refuse  to  bury  their  dead  for  them,  but  I  know 
that  they  had  read  their  Church  of  England  service  over 
her  body,  very  likely  with  the  burning  of  candles  and 
other  Papist  mummery,  before  I  came  to  pray.  I  fear  all 
is  not  well  with  them." 

The  parson  drew  his  face  down,  but  his  air  expressed, 
after  all,  a  certain  sacred  sense  of  triumph  that  a  deserved 
fate  was  overtaking  miscreants. 

"They're  awful  poor — I  know  that,"  piped  up  a  boy's 
voice.  It  was  that  of  Levi  Fuller,  the  son  of  the  town 
constable,  whose  house  lay  near  the  small  cottage  of  the 
Maitlands.  There  was  a  strain  of  indignant  pity  in  the 
shrill  half-protest.  "They've  mostly  lived  on  the  milk  of 
the  cow,"  he  went  on,  "an'  now  they  hain't  got  nothin'." 

A  little  qualm  passed  over  the  face  of  the  pastor.  Then 
it  resumed  its  usual  expression  of  inscrutable  calm. 

"They  that  live  against  the  Lord,  from  His  wrath  may 
they  not  hope  to  be  delivered!"  he  ejaculated,  fervently. 

"Mother  sent  'em  over  a  hunk  o'  dried  beef  this  morn- 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch."         213 

in',"  proceeded  the  boy,  as  though  driven  by  some  fate- 
ful force  to  tell  the  secrets  of  his  family.  There  was  a 
certain  defiance  in  his  tone,  too,  as  though  one  should 
say,  "If  there  is  any  heart  in  you,  you,  too,  will  pity  these 
unfortunate  people." 

"If  old  Lady  Maitland  is  what  some  thinks,"  said  Ly- 
sander  Mingins,  significantly,  "an'  this  dancin'  an'  the 
rest  looks  mighty  like  it,  them  that  helps  her  had  better 
take  care.  I  believe" — his  voice  grew  thick  and  low — 
"I  believe  the's  a  curse  on  'em." 

Old  Laban  Trewis  leaned  forward  and  struck  the  floor 
with  his  heavy  cane. 

"Did  they  keep  a  Thanksgivin'?"  he  thundered.  "Xaw 
— they  never  even  coom  to  the  house  o'  Gawd !  But  what 
is  it  they'll  keep  so  solemn  'n  so  gay,  too?  I  tell  'ee  it's 
the  Christmas  time  coomin'  nex'  week  now!  I  tell  'ee, 
they'll  both  on  'em  dawnce  aroun'  the  holly-bush  then! 
An'  when  I  fust  coom  to  this  country,  'n  lived  down 
Salem  way,  there  wras  death  'n  blight  there  among  them 
that  had  dawncin'  roun'  holly-bushes  and  Christmas- 
keepin', — an'  they  wa'n't  no  mincin'  names  then,  I  tell 
'ee — they  was  called  by  their  right  names  then — they  was 
called  Witches!" 

The  old  man  sank  back  into  his  seat,  almost  exhausted 
by  his  long  and  fiery  speech.  There  was  a  rapid  mingling 
of  talk  as  he  concluded,  during  which  he  seized  a  chance 
to  order  a  glass  of  rum-and-water.  In  the  midst  of  the 
hubbub  the  door  opened  again,  and  there  entered  a  slen- 
der and  singularly  handsome  young  man.  His  face,  in 
spite  of  its  high-bred  beauty,  was  very  sallow,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  his  sunken  eyes  and  the  sharpness  of  his  long, 
straight  nose  made  him  as  one  on  whom  the  seal  of  death 
is  set.  He  coughed  as  he  came  in — a  cough  which  made 


2U  White   Butterflies. 

even  the  hardest  of  the  group  about  the  fire  to  shudder. 
On  his  head  was  a  worn  but  still  elegant  cap  of  fur.  His 
cloak,  though  old  and  shabby,  was  of  the  richest  materials, 
and  on  its  broad  collar  was  embroidered  a  coat  of  arms. 
His  bearing,  though  that  of  a  man  whom  illness  has  en- 
feebled, was  still  proud  and  noble. 

He  bought  a  few  cheap  groceries,  taking  the  packages 
from  the  tradesman's  hands  as  a  duke  might  receive  a 
gift  from  his  dependents.  The  parson  deliberately  turned 
his  back  upon  the  youth.  The  sudden  cessation  of  the 
excited  talk  as  he  came  in  must  have  been  noticed  by 
him,  but  his  marble  face  expressed  nothing  beyond  a 
half-defined  contempt. 

As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  went  out  into 
the  snowy  night,  the  Fuller  boy  followed  him.  The  store- 
keeper quietly  slipped  out  upon  the  big  stone  step  of  his 
store  to  see  what  should  be  done.  He  saw  the  Fuller 
boy  take  the  sick  man's  parcels  and  offer  him  the  strong, 
if  clumsy,  support  of  his  young  arm,  which  was  not  re- 
jected. The  Fuller  boy  had  a  mother,  who,  while  trying 
hard  to  follow  the  severe  theology  of  the  day,  still  al- 
lowed her  somewhat  strong  mind,  and  her  kind  and 
gentle  heart  to  dwell  chiefly  upon  the  precepts  of  the 
merciful  Jesus.  In  the  first  place,  she  did  not  believe 
half  the  stories  which  were  afloat  about  the  Maitlands. 
In  the  second  place,  even  if  these  stories  were  all  true, 
there  was  no  excuse,  she  declared,  for  treating  the  unfor- 
tunate family  inhumanly.  That  the  Maitlands  were 
proud  and  scornful,  was  true.  They  had  been  treated 
in  a  way  to  make  them  so,  reasoned  Mrs.  Fuller.  But, 
if  they  were  poor,  misguided  "Papists,"  why  not  try  to 
win  them  over  to  the  true  faith  by  kindness  and  love?  For 
her  own  part,  Mrs.  Fuller — and  she  was  not  the  only  one 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch.'*        .216 

— loved  to  go  by  the  little  wooden  house  in  which  the 
Maitlands  lived,  and  see  through  the  window  the  white- 
haired,  beautiful-faced  old  woman,  as  she  sat  sewing;  or 
hear  her,  as  she  played  upon  her  spinet — the  only  one  in 
town.  Everybody  loved  to  watch  her,  too,  as  she  tended 
her  flower  garden.  Nobody  had  such  flowers  as  she. 

The  men  in  the  store,  who  separated  to  go  to  their  va- 
rious homes  shortly  after  young  Maitland  left,  commiser- 
ated the  Fuller  boy,  and  expressed  fears — when  they  saw 
Parson  Bement's  shocked  look,  as  the  storekeeper  re- 
lated what  the  boy  had  done — that  a  new  subject  was 
making  ready  to  serve  the  Prince  of  Darkness.  But  the 
boy  did  not  know  this,  and  as  his  mother  told  him — in 
few  words  and  without  emotion,  as  was  the  way  with 
New  England  mothers — that  he  had  done  right — this, 
with  the  warm  thanks  of  the  sick  man,  when  he  had 
parted  from  his  young  benefactor,  made  Levi  Fuller  quite 
easy  in  his  mind. 

The  heavy  snows  began  to  melt.  One  of  those  delight- 
ful, sunny  seasons  which  the  stern  New  England  winters 
sometimes  grant  about  Christmas  time,  came  over  Fen- 
marsh.  Young  Maitland  seemed  to  revive  somewhat  un- 
der the  gracious  influences  of  the  kindly  sun.  One  morn- 
ing, warmly  wrapped,  he  sat  out  on  the  porch  of  their 
little  cottage,  while  "Lady  Maitland,"  as  his  mother  was 
generally  called  throughout  the  village,  brought  forth  her 
boxes  of  chrysanthemums  and  set  them  in  the  sun  be- 
side him.  There  were  five  of  the  plants,  large,  strong, 
and  covered  with  nodding  blossoms.  Nobody  else  in 
Fenmarsh  had  anything  like  them.  The  women  there 
envied  "Lady  Maitland"  far  more  than  her  air  of  distinc- 
tion and  the  experiences  of  splendor  which  it  was 
rumored  that  she  had  had — her  wonderful  success  with 


216  White   Butterflies. 

plants.  What  would  they  not  give  for  such  "artemishys" 
as  those! 

The  old  lady,  high-headed,  perfectly  erect,  stern-faced, 
but  regally  handsome,  went  on  with  her  work  as  she 
talked  with  her  son. 

"I  was  hoping,"  he  said,  "to  go  down  to  the  graveyard 
once  more  before  the  winter  fairly  closed  in,  and  put  a 
bunch  of  flowers  on  Edith's  grave." 

Her  face  grew  pale,  and  she  fetched  out  another  box  of 
tossing,  beautiful  flowers  before  she  dared  to  speak. 

"You  must  not  think  of  it,  Gerald,"  she  said,  calmly. 
"In  the  spring  you  will  be  stronger.  Our  fortunes  must 
look  up  by  that  time.  We  shall  hear  from  Elizabeth,  and 
she  or  some  of  our  friends  must  come  to  us.  We  can 
manage  in  some  way  to  get  through  the  winter — but  you 
must  keep  quiet  and  warm.  I  am  afraid  it  overtaxed  you, 
going  out  the  other  night." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  hastened  to  say.  "If  you  think 
I  am  so  far  gone  that  my  mother  must  go  without  her 
morning  cup  of  tea  because  I  cannot  face  the  night 
air " 

"It  is  no  disgrace,  Gerald,"  she  hastened  to  cry,  with 
a  note  of  exquisite  pain  in  her  voice.  "Think  what  you 
have  been  through — the  little  one's  death  in  Fairweather 
— then  Edith's  slow  decline — our  losses  of  property — the 
burning  of  our  buildings — oh,  you  would  be  more  than 
human  if  you  could  endure  it  without  breaking  down. 
You  know  you  have  always  been  delicate." 

"But  you — you  have  endured  it."  He  looked  at  her 
with  fond  pride.  They  were  all  in  all  to  each  other. 

She  buried  her  face  in  a  mass  of  yellow  bloom,  to  hide 
a  tear  which  would  trickle  down  her  cheek.  "He  does  not 
know  how  my  brain  has  reeled!"  she  murmured. 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch."        217 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said  brightly,  turning  her  face  from 
him,  and  leaving  the  tear  to  shine  like  a  drop  of  dew  upon 
the  golden  blossom,  "I  feel  as  strong  and  fresh  as  ever. 
I  have  always  been  so  strong,  you  know,  dear!" 

Two  little  children,  muffled  in  stout,  home-spun 
woolen,  had  come  along  the  street,  and  now  they  were 
leaning  against  the  gate  and  looking  covetously  at  Lady 
Maitland's  wonderful  chrysanthemums.  She  always  re- 
garded the  village  people  with  unconcealed  scorn. 

"What  do  you  want,  little  girls?"  she  called  out  now. 
Her  tone  was  very  cross. 

The  children  dropped  a  courtesy  in  careful  unison. 

"Please,  forsooth,  a  flower,  mum,  for  Vashti  and  me." 

Lady  Maitland  broke  off  the  spray  of  yellow  chrysan- 
themums on  which  the  tear  was  still  glittering,  shook  it, 
and  gave  it  to  the  child.  To  little  "Vashti,"  she  gave  a 
red  one. 

The  children  took  them  with  eyes  glowing,  and  sniffed 
in  their  spicy  odors.  The  old  woman's  set  face  softened. 
It  was  a  mitigation  of  their  vulgarity  that  these  children 
should  so  love  flowers. 

"You  poor  little  things!  how  you  do  enjoy  them!"  she 
said,  kindly. 

This  encouraged  them.    Little  Vashti  came  nearer. 

"Please,  forsooth,"  she  said,  trembling,  "can — can — 
Lois  and  I — have  you  got  a  holly-bush?" 

"Indeed  I  have,"  replied  Lady  Maitland;  "and  it  is  all 
covered  with  beautiful  red  berries." 

"He  said  so!"  cried  the  child,  clapping  her  hands  and 
then  putting  on  a  frightened  look,  as  she  saw  that  she  had 
almost  broken  her  cherished  spray  of  flowers  by  so  doing; 
"Uncle  Laban  Trewis  said  you  had.  Where  is  it?" 

She  began  to  push,  child-like,  past  the  stately  figure, 


218  White   Butterflies. 

little  Lois  following  hard  after  her,  but  the  strong  arm  of 
the  mistress  barred  the  way. 

"What  rude  little  girls!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  look 
which  made  the  innocent  little  things  shrink  back  aghast. 
"You  should  never  enter  a  house  without  an  invitation. 
Did  you  never  hear  of  such  a  rule  as  that?" 

Little  Vashti  began  to  cry. 

"I  want  to  see  the  red  berries,"  she  sobbed. 

"Oh,  let  them  see  it,  mother,"  interposed  the  young 
man,  wearily.  "It's  little  enough  we  have  to  please  any- 
body." 

"Well,  come,  then,"  she  said,  impatiently.  She  led  the 
way  in.  "Here  it  is."' 

There,  in  the  full  glory  of  a  south  window,  stood  the 
famous  holly-bush,  as  tall  as  little  Vashti's  head,  and  look- 
ing brave  enough,  with  its  spreading,  prickly  leaves  and 
shining  berries. 

"Oh-h-h !"  sighed  the  little  ones,  gazing  with  eyes  like 
stars  upon  the  brilliant  spectacle. 

"I  will  cut  a  spray  for  each  of  you,"  said  Lady  Mait- 
land,  graciously.  This  done,  they  did  not  forget  to  thank 
her,  but  even  after  they  had  done  this,  they  still  stood 
gazing  at  her. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  lady,  whose  opinion  of  the  man- 
ners of  the  neighborhood  was  confirmed  by  the  conduct 
of  these  heedless  little  ones,  "What  now?" 

They  were  very  small — probably  not  more  than  seven 
years  old,  and  their  solemn  aspect,  as  they  looked  from 
the  holly-bush  to  her,  and  from  her  to  the  holly-bush, 
seemed  unutterably  ridiculous  to  her.  She  began  to 
laugh  nervously. 

"What  now?"  she  repeated. 

"Please,  forsooth,"  began  little  Lois,  timidly,  and  with 


"Ye  Christmas  Witch."        219 

the  awe-struck  look  in  her  big  eyes  growing  deeper. 
"Please,  forsooth,  would  you  dawnce  around  the  holly- 
bush  for  us?" 

The  usual  pronunciation  of  the  word  "dance"  was 
short  and  flat  to  a  degree  in  Fenmarsh,  but  the  child  had 
heard  Uncle  Laban  Trewis  use  the  word  in  this  connec- 
tion, and  she  copied  his  manner. 

Lady  Maitland  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  indig- 
nant bewilderment.  Then  a  partial  vision  of  the  situation 
came  over  her,  and  she  burst  into  a  harsh,  wild  laugh. 
Any  one  hearing  it  would  surely  have  thought  it  the 
laugh  of  a  crazy  woman.  Her  son  came  hurrying  in 
from  the  porch. 

"Fancy,  Gerald!"  she  cried,  amid  hysterical  sobs,  which 
were  half  of  sardonic  laughter,  "these  impertinent  little 
things !  What  can  they  mean !" 

She  sat  down  in  one  of  the  stiff,  high-backed  chairs 
against  the  wall,  and  fell  to  laughing  again  that  dreadful 
laugh. 

"What  is  it?"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  pulling  little 
Lois  toward  him.  "What  did  you  say  to  her?  Tell  me 
quick." 

The  child  choked  up  and  began  to  cry  bitterly,  hiding 
her  face  behind  her  flowers.  Little  Vashti  came  to  her 
assistance. 

"She  said,"  she  began  tremblingly.  "She  said,  'Won't 
you  dawnce  around  the  holly-bush  for  us?'  " 

The  young  man  looked  puzzled  and  distressed.  "Go 
now,"  he  said. 

The  little  things,  both  of  them  sobbing  by  this  time, 
went  slowly  down  the  path  to  the  road.  As  the  young 
man  gazed  after  them,  his  face  darkened.  He  and  his 
mother  were,  then,  objects  of  suspicion  as  well  as  of  dis- 


220  White   Butterflies. 

like.  He  had  not  cared  for  the  dislike  of  the  people — a 
Maitland  could  only  disdain  these  lowly  folk  and  all  their 
ways,  but  could  it  be  that  they  thought  his  mother  a — 
witch? 

A  cold  sweat  gathered  on  him  as  he  recalled  the  Salem 
murders,  and  the  other  outrages  on  helpless  and  inno- 
cent unfortunates  which  had  occurred  nearer  Fenmarsh. 
The  excitement  over  witches  had  died  away,  he  thought. 
Could  it  be  that  it  was  to  start  up  again  now,  and  that 
the  lightning  strokes  which  had  twice  burned  their  build- 
ings— the  death  which  had  carried  off  his  child  and  then 
his  young  wife — the  plagues  which  had  destroyed  their 
cattle — that  these  were  going  to  be  laid  to  a  curse  from 
the  Almighty?  "Ah,"  his  soul  cried  in  its  anguish,  "if 
there  be  any  foundation  for  the  belief  that  misfortunes 
follow  those  who  are  hated  of  God,  then  are  we,  indeed, 
the  objects  of  His  sore  displeasure!" 

As  the  children  departed,  his  mother  had  thrown  her 
head  upon  her  arms,  and,  leaning  on  the  plain  kitchen 
table,  was  weeping  violently.  As  he  thought,  he  stroked 
her  gray  hair  and  tried  to  soothe  her. 

"Forget  it,  mother,"  he  pleaded,  "think  of  what  the 
future  holds  for  us.  It  cannot  hold  anything  worse  than 
we  have  suffered.  I  believe  it  will  be  like  the  beautiful 
old  times.  Think  of  them." 

"I  can  see  it  all  now,"  she  said,  brokenly.  "I  did  not 
understand  it  before.  I  know  now  why  the  children  look 
so  at  me  when  I  pass  along  the  street;  why  people  cross 
over;  and  why  the  horses  are  whipped  up  when  they  go  by 
the  house.  They  think  I  am  a  witch,  and  that  I  hold  or- 
gies, like  the  witches  in  'Macbeth!'  Oh,  Gerald!  isn't  il 
absurd!"  she  laughed  wildly,  "and  yet  isn't  it  awful!" 
Now  she  began  to  weep. 


"Ye  Christmas  Witch."        221 

"Don't,  mother,"  he  begged,  "just  think  how  it  is  al- 
most Christmas-time,  and  remember  what  beautiful  times 
we  used  to  have  at  the  Hall — how  Elizabeth  and  I  used 
to  trim  the  mantels,  and  how  Edith  would  come  over  so 
early  and  sing  carols  with  us,  and  what  lovely  gifts  we 
used  to  have." 

"Yes,"  said  his  mother,  bitterly,  calmed  by  his 
gentleness.  "But  what  do  these  recollections  bring  to 
me?  Memory  seems  no  friend — only  a  lash  to  sting  me. 
Edith  and  her  beautiful  babe  are  dead.  Elizabeth — where 
is  she?  When  we  heard  last  from  her — and,  just  think, 
Gerald,  that  was  three  years  ago — she  was  very  ill  at 
your  Uncle  William's,  and  she,  too,  may  be  dead,  for 
all  we  know.  Maitland  Hall  is  wrested  from  us  by  a 
false  claim.  I  know  your  father  never  owed  your  Uncle 
Richard  any  such  sum  as  he  claimed.  I  know  he  had  no 
right  to  take  our  home  from  us — though  he  did  produce 
those  dreadful  papers  in  court  to  prove  it.  Then  our 
money  is  nearly  gone.  It  is  only  by  the  closest  man- 
agement that  we  can  get  through  the  long,  hard  winter 
which  is  just  beginning.  You  are  ill,  and  need  delicacies 
which  we  cannot  buy.  Why,  Gerald,  my  brain  whirls 
so,  when  I  think  of  it  sometimes,  that  I  can  readily  be- 
lieve of  myself  that  I  am  as  crazy  as  these  low  village 
people  think." 

"Poor  mother!  Poor  mother!"  he  said,  with  stream- 
ing eyes. 

"Oh,  my  brave,  beautiful  boy!  Forgive  me!"  she  cried, 
as  she  saw  the  look  which  crept  over  his  stern,  sunken 
face.  "Let  us  forget  it  all!  W'e  shall  hear  from  Eliza- 
beth. She  is  well  and  strong.  She  and  Uncle  William 
have  succeeded  in  getting  back  our  home.  They  will 
come  to  us  with  plenty  of  money,  or  else  they  will  call 


222  White   Butterflies. 

us  back  to  England.  We  cannot  make  the  dead  to  live, 
but  there  will  be  much  comfort  and  happiness  for  us  yet." 

"How  could  I  excite  him  so!"  she  murmured,  as  she 
turned  away  from  him.  In  her  heart  she  felt  that  she 
was  but  hastening  the  end. 

"Bring  in  your  chair,  Gerald,"  she  continued,  brightly, 
"I  will  cook  the  potatoes  and  cut  the  loaf." 

With  an  air  as  though  she  were  serving  for  her  pleas- 
ure the  sovereign  of  her  country,  the  stately  woman 
moved  about  the  little  room,  performing  the  menial  duties 
which  seemed  so  ill-suited  to  her;  and  thus  the  day  passed 
on.  At  nightfall,  she  saw  that  her  son  had  visibly  failed. 
The  exciting  events  of  the  day — the  startling  glimpse  into 
the  true  feeling  of  the  people  around  them,  which  had 
been  afforded  by  the  little  girl's  absurd  question  about 
the  holly-bush,  had  unnerved  and  exhausted  him.  But 
before  they  went  to  bed,  the  old  woman  sat  down  at  her 
spinet,  and  sang  a  tender  Christmas  song. 

"Forget  everything  that  is  sad,  Gerald,"  she  said, 
cheerily,  as  she  kissed  him  good-night;  "we  will  have  a 
happy  Christmas  to-morrow,  in  spite  of  everything.  We 
still  have  each  other.  Those  who  have  passed  away  are 
happy  in  a  better  world.  We  shall  join  them  some  time, 
and  how  beautiful  that  will  be!  There  is  nothing  sad, 
any  way  you  look  at  it.  It  is  all  bright,  and  by  another 
Christmas  things  may  be  so  different  with  us!"  She 
laughed  a  laugh  that  had  tears  in  it,  but  it  was  not  grat- 
ing and  strange,  like  her  laugh  in  the  morning.  He 
kissed  her. 

"Good-night,  mother,"  he  said,  "the  brave  mother  who 
will  not  be  cast  down." 

The  lights  were  put  out,  the  little  home  was  still,  but 
angels  entered  that  night  through  the  closed  doors.  The 


"Ye  Christmas  Witch."        223 

messenger  came,  and,  as  ever,  he  found  no  resistance, 
for  who  can  resist  the  Angel  of  Death? 

The  Christmas  morning  broke  clear  and  quiet.  "Lady 
Maitland"  had  fashioned,  out  of  materials  saved  from 
the  wreck  of  their  fortunes,  a  rich,  embroidered  garment 
for  her  son,  and,  with  her  hands  piled  full  of  gay  chrysan- 
themums, she  went  into  his  room  to  take  to  him  her 
Christmas  token. 

"Good  morning,  Gerald!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  en- 
tered his  chamber.  "Let  me  throw  open  the  shutter.  See 
how  the  sunlight  streams  in.  Is  it  not  wonderful?" 

There  was  a  strange  stillness.  The  smile  with  which 
she  had  wreathed  her  face  faded.  With  a  cry  of  utter  de- 
spair she  threw  herself  across  his  silent  body,  scattering 
the  flowers  over  the  coarse  white  counterpane.  The 
warm,  embroidered  dressing-gown,  over  which  she  had 
toiled  so  hard  in  secret,  weaving  in  her  desperate  love 
with  every  pictured  blossom,  fell  to  the  floor. 
.  It  was  thus  they  found  her,  hours  afterward. 

"They  ain't  been  no  smoke  outer  Lady  Maitland's 
chimbly  this  mornin,"  said  Mrs.  Fuller  to  her  husband, 
the  constable.  It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  he  had  just  come 
in  from  the  barn.  The  soft  weather  had  gone  by.  It 
was  blowing  up  cold  from  the  north — a  bitter  Christmas 
day.  It  had  not  occurred  to  the  Fullers  that  it  was 
Christmas  day  at  all. 

The  stiff-legged,  clumsy  farmer  walked  to  the  last  win- 
dow, which  overlooked  the  modest  home  of  the  Mait- 
lands.  The  plain  curtains  had  not  been  raised.  Every- 
thing looked  still  and  deserted. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  over,"  persisted  Mrs.  Fuller. 

"I  wish  you'd  let  them  pesky  folks  alone,"  snapped 
her  husband.  "Fairweather  folks  is  glad  enough  to  get 


224  White  Butterflies. 

shet  on  'em.  Over  there  they  call  'em  Papists  out'n  out. 
I  seen  John  Gerrish  yisterd'y.  He  says  Parson  Dum- 
mer's  right  outspoken  about  'em,  same  as  Parson  Be- 
ment  is  here.  Parson  Dummer,  he  hain't  so  hard  on 
nobody  as  Parson  Bement  is,  but  Gerrish  says  even  he 
says  the  Maitlands  ain't  what  they  orter  be!" 

"I'm  reely  worried,  Tobias,"  went  on  Mrs.  Fuller,  as 
though  she  had  not  heard  a  word  her  husband  was  saying, 
"about  Lady  Maitland.  I  don't  mind  her  airs.  She 
never  puts  on  none  on  'em  along  o'  me.  She's  good  to 
her  friends,  same  as  the  rest  on  us  be.  When  folks  treat 
her  mean,  she  pays  'em  back,  o'  course."  As  she  spoke 
she  was  winding  a  woolen  comforter  around  her  neck, 
and  donning  her  "camlet"  cloak  and  hood.  "I'm  goin' 
over,"  she  said,  shortly.  "Levi  saw  Mr.  Gerald  out  in 
the  storm  the  other  night,  gittin'  groceries  to  the  store. 
He  hain't  been  out  much  sense.  I'm  afeared  they're  both 
on  'em  down." 

Mrs.  Fuller  did  not  mention  to  her  husband  that  she 
proposed  to  take  with  her  a  pail  of  milk  and  a  package 
of  doughnuts,  but  she  took  them,  just  the  same. 

Repeated  knocks  at  the  Maitlands'  doors  produced  no 
effect.  Mrs.  Fuller  came  back  for  her  husband,  and,  after 
some  reasoning,  induced  him  to  return  with  her  and  force 
an  entrance.  Then  the  sad  truth  was  known.  Young 
Gerald  Maitland  was  dead.  His  proud  mother,  whose 
brain,  in  the  opinion  of  most  of  the  village  people,  had 
always  been  more  or  less  cracked,  was  now  undoubtedly 
demented. 

Mrs.  Fuller  would  not  call  in  any  neighbors,  till  she 
had  first  made  a  thorough  investigation  of  the  case  and 
of  the  house,  herself.  They  had  raised  up  the  poor,  faint- 
ing mother,  and  had  laid  her  upon  a  chintz-covered  couch 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch/'        225 

in  the  little  sitting-room,  but  she  was  in  such  a  fever  and 
seemed  so  weak  and  helpless  that  it  was  plain  she  must 
be  undressed  and  put  to  bed.  Mrs.  Fuller  hurried  up- 
stairs to  see  that  a  room  should  be  made  ready  for  her. 
The  good  woman's  heart  beat  as  she  ascended  the  stairs. 
Should  she  find  in  that  secluded  apartment  any  of  the 
strange  charms  and  cabalistic  manuscripts  which  were 
rumored  to  belong  to  poor  Lady  Maitland?  She  opened 
the  door  carefully.  The  light  of  noon  poured  in  upon 
the  plain  furnishings  of  the  room,  which  were  not  unlike 
those  of  Mrs.  Fuller's  own,  excepting  that,  between  the 
windows,  hung  a  crucifix,  and  in  sockets  placed  on  either 
side  of  it  in  the  wall  were  unlighted  candles.  A  cushion 
was  beneath  it  in  which  there  was  a  fresh  impres- 
sion. 

"She's  said  her  prayers  there  this  blessed  morning!" 
sighed  Mrs.  Fuller.  "I  should  think  she'd  a'  found  out 
before  this  that  prayin'  in  that  way  wouldn't  avail."  But, 
still,  in  Mrs.  Fuller's  secret  soul  arose  the  unbidden  ques- 
tion, why,  if  the  heart  were  sincere,  prayer  offered  before  a 
crucifix  should  be  not  as  acceptable  as  the  same  prayer  of- 
fered somewhere  else?  There  was  something  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  as  well  as  of  the  eighteenth,  in  good  Mrs. 
Fuller's  make-up. 

"Any  way,"  soliloquized  the  good  woman,  hurriedly, 
for  she  heard  a  voice  below  which  she  recognized  as  that 
of  Mrs.  Mingins,  little  Lois's  mother,  "I'll  hide  every- 
thing, so  that  nobody  else  shall  see  it."  So  crucifix, 
cushion,  candles  and  all  were  hastily  thrust  between  the 
feather  mattresses.  The  candlesticks  alone  remained  to 
tell  the  story,  and  they  were  not  necessarily  incendiary. 
Mrs.  Fuller  was  none  too  soon.  She  had  scarcely  time 
to  open  an  oaken  chest  near  her,  and  pretend  to  be  ex- 
15 


226  White   Butterflies. 

amining  its  contents,  when  Mrs.  Mingins'  face  appeared 
at  the  door. 

"Here's  a  clean  nightgown  for  her,"  said  Mrs.  Fuller, 
stopping  for  no  conventionalities.  "I'm  so  glad  you've 
come,  Miss  Mingins.  Tell  'em  to  fetch  her  up,  if  they 
can.  I  can  manage  her,  if  they'll  get  her  up  here." 

"Who's  goin'  to  take  care  on  her?"  said  Mrs.  Mingins, 
doubtfully.  "I'll  tell  ye  frankly,  Mis  Fuller,  I  wouldn't 
stay  here  for  no  money." 

"I'll  stay,"  said  Mrs.  Fuller,  promptly.  "I'll  stay  till 
to-morrow,  sure.  Sarah  Jane  an'  Levi  can  do  the  work 
up  to  my  house.  Tell  'em  to  hurry  up." 

An  hour  later,  thanks  to  Mrs.  Fuller's  judicious  nurs- 
ing, the  poor,  lonely  mother  lay  in  a  gentle  sleep. 

Downstairs  there  was  a  great  consultation;  Parson 
Bement,  Doctor  Dow,  Tobias  Fuller,  Mr.  Mellen  and 
several  others  from  among  the  leading  men  in  the  village 
were  talking  about  the  Maitlands.  Nobody  wanted  to 
watch  overnight  with  the  dead  man.  Nobody  was  clear 
what  sort  of  a  funeral  should  be  given  him;  but  after 
discussing  the  subject  for  a  half-hour,  Uncle  Laban  Tre- 
wis,  who  had  dug  the  graves  in  the  village  churchyard  for 
twenty  years,  was  set  to  work  digging  a  grave,  a  plain 
coffin  was  procured,  young  Gerald  Maitland  was  placed 
in  it,  a  prayer  was  said  over  him,  and  before  the  darkness 
fell  that  night,  his  body  lay  at  rest  beside  that  of  his 
young  wife.  Mrs.  Fuller  had  not  been  able  to  join  much 
in  the  discussion,  but  she  was  indignant  when  she  found 
how  summarily  matters  had  been  settled. 

"What  if  she  comes  to  in  the  night?"  she  asked, 
warmly.  "What  should  I  say  to  her?  It's  a  shame  to 
bury  him  so  quick!  You  hadn't  orter  a'  consented  to 
it,  Tobias!  Wai,  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  lay  the  flowers 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch."        227 

that  was  scattered  on  the  coverlid,  on  his  grave.  Freeze? 
What  if  they  do  freeze?  It's  a  little  mite  o'  mercy,  any- 
how." 

Parson  Bement  thought  this  outburst  anything  but 
truly  pious,  but  Mrs.  Fuller  was  not  very  amenable  to  his 
counsels,  and  broke  away  from  him  as  soon  as  she  could, 
on  the  pretext  that  the  poor  woman  upstairs  was  in  need 
of  her. 

The  nailing  of  the  coffin  had  disturbed  the  sleeper. 
When  Mrs.  Fuller  came  upstairs  she  found  Lady  Mait- 
land  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  and  gazing  about  her  in  be- 
wilderment. 

"What  was  that  noise?"  she  said,  faintly.  "I  thought 
the  Christmas  greens  had  been  put  up  long  ago.  I  did 
not  order  any  decorations  upstairs." 

"No,  no!"  said  Mrs.  Fuller,  soothingly.  "That's  all 
right.  You  lie  down." 

"No,"  said  the  sick  woman.  "It  is  time  for  me  to 
get  up.  Did  you  hear  the  children  sing  this  morning? 
I  must  have  slept  through  it  myself — but  I  know  it  was 
lovely.  What  a  charming  voice  Edith  has!  And  Eliza- 
beth's is  almost  as  sweet." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Fuller,  "but  don't  talk  now.  It 
is  growing  dark,  and  it's  cold.  You'll  ketch  cold  if  you 
set  up  so.  Do  lie  down.  You  can't  get  up  'n  dress 
now.  'Tain't  time." 

"Why,  Susan,  is  that  you?"  said  the  wandering  woman, 
cheerfully.  "I  thought  it  was — who  did  I  think  it  was? 
I  feel  confused,  some  way.  But  I'll  do  as  you  say,  Susan." 

She  lay  down  quietly  enough.  After  this  Mrs.  Fuller 
was  constantly  "Susan"  to  her.  She  went  on  with  her 
prattle. 

"Are  the  children's  gifts  all  ready?"  she  asked,  per- 


228  White   Butterflies. 

emptorily.  "I  told  you  to  set  them  in  order  in  the  great 
hall.  There  was  an  embroidered  gown  for  Gerald — but 
for  Edith — did  I  get  anything  for  Edith?  What  was  it?" 

Her  tone  grew  helpless  and  inquiring.  There  was 
something  very  touching  to  Mrs.  Fuller,  who  had  never 
seen  Lady  Maitland  except  in  the  proud,  unbending  char- 
acter which  she  had  chosen  to  assume  always  before  the 
village  people,  in  the  sweet,  appealing  looks  she  gave  her 
now,  as  a  certain  evidently  much-trusted  "Susan." 

"Oh — yes — that's  all  right,"  she  answered,  half  sob- 
bingly.  "There's  something  for  everybody,  I  guess." 

"And  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  pretty?"  pursued 
the  distracted  invalid.  "Elizabeth  made  the  holly  wreaths, 
and  wound  in  the  mistletoe.  I  never  saw  anything  so 
pretty.  Oh,  it  will  be  the  best  Christmas  that  the  chil- 
dren ever  had.  I  am  so  glad!" 

"You  must  not  talk  so  much,"  said  Mrs.  Fuller,  gently, 
"Your  fever  is  coming  on  again.  Now  try  to  keep  still." 

."You  see,"  went  on  the  sick  woman,  paying  not  the 
slightest  heed  to  her  nurse's  words,  "You  see,  Edith  and 
Gerald  are  very  fond  of  each  other.  She  is  a  sweet 
girl,  and  they  have  always  loved  each  other.  If  they 
should  marry,  it  would  be  well  enough.  Edith  is  not 
rich,  but  Gerald  will  have  the  Hall,  and  there  is  an 
abundance — an  abundance." 

She  repeated  the  words  emphatically,  as  though  to  dare 
Mrs.  Fuller  to  deny  them. 

"Poor  thing!"  cried  Mrs.  Fuller,  "I  wonder  if  she  will 
understand  to-morrow." 

For  she  knew  already,  from  what  she  had  been  able  to 
see  in  the  short  time  she  had  been  in  charge  of  the  house, 
that  there  was  little  enough  to  pay  for  the  keeping  of 
even  this  one  poor  creature  in  it,  There  were  vegetables 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch/'        229 

and  apples  in  the  cellar,  a  few  supplies  in  the  pantry,  a 
little  money,  but  beyond  something  which,  it  had  been 
learned,  was  yet  to  be  paid  upon  a  mortgage  which  had 
just  been  put  upon  the  place,  there  was  barely  enough 
of  the  whole  Maitland  estate  to  cover  the  young  man's 
funeral  expenses,  and  to  provide  for  the  mother's  wants 
during  the  winter. 

"She  will  have  to  go  to  the  poorhouse,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Fuller,  turning  white  about  the  lips  herself  at  the 
thought.  The  fall  of  pride  involved  seemed  to  extend 
somehow  to  her,  too — at  least,  so  that  she  could  feel 
something  of  the  twinge  which  the  proud  woman  on  the 
pillow  would  feel  if  she  knew. 

Levi  slept  that  night  on  the  couch  in  the  little  Maitland 
sitting  room,  while  his  mother  watched  upstairs  with  the 
sick  woman.  They  both  slept  late  the  next  morning.  It 
was  nearly  eight  when  Mrs.  Fuller  was  awakened  by  a 
violent  shaking.  Lady  Maitland  stood  above  her,  with 
an  impatient  expression  on  her  face.  She  was  quite 
dressed,  and  with  neatness. 

"Susan!"  she  said,  sharply;  "why  do  you  not  wake 
up?  I  have  dressed  entirely  by  myself.  The  children 

"  she  looked  around  vaguely,  "the  children  must  be 

out  singing  carols.  It  seems  very  lonely." 

"Don't  talk  about  'carols'  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Fuller, 
springing  up  and  beginning  to  make  her  toilet.  "Christ- 
mas is  over.  Folks  around  here  don't  think  much  of 
Christmas  any  way.  I  wouldn't  say  much  about  it  if 
I  was  you." 

"Not  Christmas  to-day!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman, 
severely.  "Susan,  you  are  insane!  It  is  Christmas  to- 
day— it  is  Christmas  always.  What  are  you  thinking 
about?" 


230  White   Butterflies. 

To  this,  the  poor,  weak  mind  was  henceforth  consistent. 
With  her  it  was  indeed,  "Christmas  always"  and,  alas! 
— she  could  not  know  enough  to  heed  kind  Mrs.  Fuller's 
well-meant  suggestion  as  to  reticence,  but  babbled  con- 
tinually of  Christmas  and  Christmas  scenes — but  always 
in  the  past. 

In  the  town  records  of  Fenmarsh  for  the  year  1788,  ap- 
pears the  following: 

"On  ye  25  of  Dec.  1788,  died:  Gerald  Maitland,  aged 
about  27.  Ye  mother  of  ye  young  man,  who  is  strange 
to  ye  most  of  ye  townsfolk,  is  much  distraught  by  his 
death.  She  was  taken  on  ye  29  to  ye  town  farm,  where 
she  could  be  cared  for.  Some  say  she  do  hold  a  pasture 
lot  in  ye  town  of  Fairweather.  If  it  can  be  done,  ye 
charge  for  her  keepe  will  be  put  on  ye  towne  of  Fair- 
weather.  Ye  Doctor  Dow  pronounces  her  very  crazy. 
Her  friends  be  not  known,  but  ye  Mistress  Tobias  Fuller 
have  writ  a  letter  to  one  Elizabeth  Maitland  in  England, 
according  to  a  letter  found  in  an  oaken,  silver-banded 
chest  which  was  in  ye  house.  If  she  heare  not  from  said 
Elizabeth  Maitland,  ye  woman  will  come  for  a  charge  on 
ye  town  of  Fenmarsh,  unless  ye  town  of  Fairweather 
will  take  her  up.  Ye  property  of  ye  woman  Margaret 
Maitland  is  but  ye  oaken  chest  aforementioned,  some 
good  old  clothing,  a  spinet  and  some  other  good  fur- 
niture, some  foolish  flowering  plants,  and  ye  pasture  lot 
in  Fairweather,  which  some  say  be  mortgaged  for  all 
it  be  worth.  Ye  house  and  place  here  be  mortgaged,  also. 
It  is  feared  ye  woman,  who  be  not  more  than  sixty  years 
of  age,  and  strong  and  well,  but  for  ye  sickness  of  her 
mind,  will  come  to  be  a  pauper  for  ye  rest  of  her  life, 
and  a  charge  on  ye  towne  of  Fenmarsh." 

In  the  records  of  the  town  of  Fairweather,  which  were 


«Ye   Christmas  Witch."         231 

kept  evidently  by  a  much  less  scholarly  person  than  those 
of  Fenmarsh,  appears  the  following  entry  at  about  the 
same  time: 

"Ye  crazy  woman,  Margaret  Maitland,  be  on  ye  town 
of  Fenmarsh.  Said  woman  did  lose  her  mind  on  acct.  of 
loosing  her  son  on  ye  25  of  December.  This  being  ye 
Christmas  Day,  she  do  gabble  of  ye  Christmas  all  ye 
time.  Said  Margaret  Maitland  be  a  Papist  and  a  witch. 
Said  woman  have  always  had  bad  luck  upon  her.  Ye 
towne  of  Fairweather  have  no  righte  to  take  her  from  ye 
towne  of  Fenmarsh.  Her  pasture  lot  be  only  1,000  feet 
square  out  of  Square  Ewing's  large  pasture  lot.  Square 
Ewing  held  a  mortgage  on  it,  which  be  now  foreclosed. 
So  it  do  be  plain  to  ye  lawyers  of  Fairweather  yt  ye  witch 
belong  not  to  this  towne,  but  to  ye  towne  of  Fenmarsh." 

Each  town  employed  lawyers  in  its  behalf,  and  all 
through  the  winter  raged  a  violent  fight  between  them  re- 
garding the  keeping  of  poor  Lady  Maitland,  whose  fallen 
estate  began  to  be  denoted  by  making  her  title  "Mother." 
She  was  usually  quiet  and  docile.  The  poormaster  could 
not  complain  that  she  made  any  trouble.  Through  the 
intercession  of  Mrs.  Fuller,  who  had  been  faithful  to  the 
Maitlands'  interests  through  everything,  the  old  wom- 
an's spinet  had  been  carried  to  the  town-farm  with  her, 
and  she  amused  herself  a  great  deal  with  playing  upon  it. 
Nobody  had  wanted  to  buy  the  instrument,  so  it  was  not 
strange  that  the  privilege  had  been  permitted.  She  had 
her  flowers,  too,  and  seemed  to  tend  them  as  skilfully  as 
ever.  Common  work,  however,  she  would  not  do,  and 
her  tone  and  manner  toward  those  around  her  were  al- 
ways superior  and  condescending.  She  seemed  perfectly 
well,  and  offered  no  violence  to  anybody.  There  was 
money  enough  realized  from  the  sale  of  her  effects  to 


282  White   Butterflies. 

pay  her  board  for  a  few  weeks,  for  everything  that  could 
be  had  been  turned  into  money,  excepting  the  spinet 
and  the  oaken  chest.  Consequently,  for  the  first  two 
months  the  controversy  between  the  towns  was  not  so 
very  violent.  As  the  spring  came  on,  and  the  money 
began  to  give  out,  however,  Fenmarsh  redoubled  its  ef- 
forts to  get  rid  of  its  unwelcome  burden.  There  had  been 
much  illness  among  the  paupers  in  Fenmarsh.  This  was 
attributed  by  "Dick"  White,  the  poormaster,  to  the  pres- 
ence of  poor  Mother  Maitland.  Early  in  March,  Polly 
Staunton,  one  of  the  oldest  paupers,  died  with  consump- 
tion. This  might  have  been  regarded  by  Fenmarsh, 
under  some  circumstances,  as  an  event  not  to  be  espe- 
cially mourned,  but,  as  things  stood,  they  declared  it 
to  be  largely  the  work  of  the  evil  spirits  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Mother  Maitland. 

"So  she's  dead!"  said  Mrs.  Fuller,  who,  not  having 
seen  Mother  Maitland  for  some  weeks,  was  paying  her 
a  short  call.  "It's  rather  of  a  mercy — poor  soul!  I've 
known  Polly  Staunton  this  forty  year,  and  she's  always 
been  a  poor,  ailin'  critter.  She's  at  rest,  thank  the  Lord!" 

"Dick"  White  looked  at  Mrs.  Fuller  mysteriously,  and 
pulled  her  to  one  side. 

"I  ain't  never  had  sech  luck  with  sickness  sense  I  took 
the  farm,"  he  said,  complainingly.  "They  ain't  no  chance 
o'  sendin'  Mother  Maitland  off  to  Fairweather,  I'm 
afeard,  and  the  Lord  only  knows  what'll  happen  to  us. 
What  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Fuller?  Is  she  a  witch,  'r 
ain't  she?  I'd  like  to  know  your  opinion." 

"Witch!"  cried  good  Mrs.  Fuller,  impatiently.  "She 
ain't  no  more  a  witch,  Dick  White,  than  you  or  I  be — 
not  a  mite.  She's  a  poor,  crazy  woman — that's  all.  Dr. 
Dow  says  she  won't  never  git  right  again,  but  Dr.  Dow 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch."        £33 

don't  know  everything,  no  more'n  anybody  else.  For 
all  you  or  I  know,  she  may  wake  up  some  mornin'  as 
bright  as  ever.  She's  had  trouble;  but  this  witch  talk! 
It  puts  me  out  o'  mind  with  the  whole  o'  ye.  I  s'posed 
witches  had  gone  out  er  fashion.  I  hain't  heered  nothin' 
on  'em  sense  the  war.  They  ain't  no  use  trumpin'  'em  up 
again,  to  my  notion.  I  don't  believe  they  ever  was 
witches,  any  way.  I  ain't  no  believer  in  ghosts,  nor 
witches,  nuther.  Don't  you  be  scart  by  all  this  talk, 
Dick  White.  Mis  White's  good  to  Mother  Maitland, 
'n  I'm  glad  on  it.  'Tain't  clear  whether  it's  Fairweather 
or  Fenmarsh  had  orter  keep  her,  but  as  long  as  she  stays 
with  us,  you  be  as  good  to  her  as  you  hev  been,  'n  there 
won't  no  harm  come  to  ye.  Now,  you  'mark  my  words. 
I  can't  help  a-hopin',"  she  continued  in  a  low  voice,  "that 
a  letter  or  somethin'll  come  from  her  folks  in  England. 
I  believe  they'll  pay  suthin'  sometime.  Her  money's 
pretty  much  gone,  I  know,  but  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  the 
pay  came  from  somewheres  or  other." 

The  strong  convictions  of  Mrs.  Fuller  had  for  a  while 
their  effect  upon  Dick  White.  Then  a  sudden  succession 
of  calamities  fell  upon  the  town-farm.  The  White's  eldest 
boy,  a  lad  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  fell  from  a  beam  and 
broke  his  arm;  one  of  the  cows  cast  her  calf;  and  a  child 
carelessly  took  a  burning  brand  into  the  barn  and  it  was 
destroyed  by  fire. 

Now  Fenmarsh  was  all  awake.  The  witch  belonged  to 
P'airweather,  and  to  Fairweather  she  must  go.  Accord- 
ingly, one  sunny  May  morning,  poor  Mother  Maitland, 
with  her  spinet,  her  oaken  chest  and  her  boxes  of  plants, 
was  unceremoniously  bundled  into  Dick  White's  long 
wagon  and  carted  across  the  Connecticut  River  to  the 
town-farm  of  Fairweather. 


234  White   Butterflies. 

She  was  cheerful  and  composed  over  the  move,  ana 
chatted  incessantly  as  she  passed  along.  She  alwavs 
called  Dick  White,  "Richard,"  and  as  he  was  never  harsh 
with  her,  she  treated  him  with  benignant  condescension. 

"It  is  a  pleasant  day  for  Christmas,"  she  said,  dreamily, 
"but  I  don't  like  to  have  it  quite  so  warm  at  this  season." 

"A  little  while  ago  you  was  findin'  it  too  cold  for 
Christmas,"  said  Dick  White,  good-humoredly ;  "you're 
kinder  hard  to  suit." 

"The  weather  is  too  warm  for  Christmas  Day,"  re- 
peated Mother  Maitland,  with  emphasis.  "I  fear  the 
church  will  be  uncomfortably  warm.  The  children  have 
been  busy  trimming  it  all  the  morning.  I  hope  the  exer- 
tion has  not  been  too  much  for  them." 

"I  guess  not,"  interposed  Dick  White  drily. 

"If  it  is  too  warm  when  we  get  there,  Richard,  I  wish 
you  personally  to  see  to  having  the  windows  opened. 
My  head  will  ache  if  the  air  is  too  close.  You  will  please 
attend  to  it,  Richard." 

"Wai,  I  ain't  a-runnin*  this  here  'church'  that  we're 
goin'  to,"  said  Dick  White.  "It's  John  Gerrish  that 
runs  this  concern,  'n  I  don't  know  how  he'll  feel  about 
givin'  you  plenty  of  air,  I'm  sure.  I'm  afeard  he  won't 
step  around  so  lively  as  to  please  ye  as  Laury  'n  I  hev." 

She  paid  little  heed  to  his  warnings,  but  kept  on  prat- 
tling of  Christmas  trimmings  and  the  Christmas  service, 
until  the  good  man  was  almost  wild. 

"Now,  see  here,"  he  said  kindly,  "John  Gerrish  'n  his 
wife  won't  put  up  with  so  much  of  this  Christmas  non- 
sense as  I  do.  You  want  to  keep  kinder  quiet  over  here. 
Fairweather  folks  don't  like  ye  none  too  well.  You  was 
kinder  airy  when  ye  used  to  live  over  here,  'n  they  don't 
forgit  it.  Now,  Mother  Maitland."  he  went  on  impres- 


«Ye   Christmas  Witch."        235 

sively,  "you're  sensible  enough  about  your  plants  'n 
takin'  keer  o'  yerself — why  can't  ye  understand  me? 
You  want  to  quit  this  Christmas  talk,  now  you're  going 
to  Fairweather." 

She  looked  at  him  with  vacant,  unheeding  blandness. 

"I  think  if  we  pass  a  shop,"  she  said,  "I  will  stop  and 
buy  a  few  more  Christmas  gifts  for  the  tenants.  I'm 
sure  I  haven't  enough." 

"No;  I  guess  ye  haint!"  ejaculated  Dick  White.  "  'N 
ye  haint  got  no  money  to  buy  none  with  neither.  Lord!" 
he  continued,  under  his  breath,  "crazy  folks  is  funny! 
I  can't  get  an  idea  into  her  noddle  to  save  me." 

They  rode  on.  John  Gerrish  met  them  as  they  drove 
up  to  the  door.  He  had  no  mind  to  receive  this  gracious, 
queenly-looking  woman,  with  her  wandering  far-away 
eyes,  and  her  tone  of  lofty  condescension — but  the  judge 
had  decided  that  Fairweather  must  take  her;  so  that 
nothing  more  was  to  be  said. 

"We're  goin'  to  have  another  trial,  mind  ye,  Dick 
White,"  he  said,  crossly.  "They  all  say  they  wa'n't  fair- 
play  this  time.  She'll  go  kitin'  back  to  Fenmarsh  before 
many  weeks.  Now,  you  mark  me!" 

"Be  careful  how  you  move  the  chest,  Richard,"  said 
Mother  Maitland  imperiously.  "The  Christmas  gifts  are 
in  it,  and  some  of  them  are  frail.  Christmas  Day  will 
be  entirely  spoiled  if  the  gifts  are  injured  " 

"All  right,"  said  Dick  White,  pleasantly. 

"Lord!  does  she  go  on  like  that?"  asked  John  Gerrish. 
"How  did  she  get  so  much  Christmas  in  her  head?"' 

"You  know  her  son  died  on  Christmas  Day — and  it 
was  Christmas  Day  that  she  went  crazy,"  said  Dick 
White  soberly.  "You  wanter  kinder  humor  her  like — 
'n  she  won't  make  ye  no  trouble." 


236  White   Butterflies. 

"No  broken  arms,  no  cast  calves,  nor  burnt  barns,  I 
s'pose."  John  Gerrish  spoke  very  sarcastically. 

"She  didn't  break  no  arms,  nor  cast  no  calves,  nor 
burn  no  barns,  as  I  know  on,"  said  Dick  White  dog- 
gedly. 

"Ye  know  she  did,"  said  John  Gerrish  under  his 
breath  and  through  shut  teeth,  as  he  thrust  his  face  close 
against  Dick  White's.  "Ye  know  she  did:  'n  I'd  a  sight 
rather  see  the  old  black  man  himself  comin'  in  at  my 
door,  than  yonder  crazy  woman — 'n  nobody  knows  why 
better  than  you  do,  Dick  White,  you  know  it!" 

"Don't  be  a  fool!" 

Dick  White  turned  a  little  pale  as  he  heard  these 
fearful  words,  and  with  just  this  brief  exclamation,  he 
gathered  up  his  reins  and  hurried  off. 

In  the  meantime,  down  the  village  street  of  Fenmarsh 
paraded  a  procession  of  men  and  boys  ringing  bells, 
beating  tin  pans  and  shouting  till  they  were  hoarse. 

"Good  riddance  to  the  Christmas  witch!"  they  cried. 
"Down  with  the  Papists!  Over  the  hills  and  far  away 
goes  Mother  Maitland!" 

The  church-bell  was  rung.  The  town  had  the  aspect 
of  a  holiday. 

In  the  middle  of  June  the  case  was  tried  again,  and  this 
time  it  went  against  Fenmarsh,  as  John  Gerrish  had  pre- 
dieted.  No  calamity  had  occurred  in  the  poor-house  at 
Fairweather,  except  the  breaking  down  of  a  pantry-shelf 
loaded  with  dishes.  The  shelf  was  old  and  weak,  but 
no  matter.  Mother  Maitland  was  at  the  bottom  of  it,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  she  was  picking  strawberries  for  a 
barmecide  Christmas  feast,  at  the  very  moment  when  the 
shelf  gave  way. 

Then  John  Gerrish  with  a  great  ado  carted  back  the 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch."        237 

poor  little  woman,  with  the  spinet,  the  chest  and  the 
plants,  to  Dick  White. 

"You'll  have  to  keep  her  now,"  he  said  triumphantly, 
"till  after  the  first  of  January,  sure,  for  the  case  can't  be 
tried  again  till  then,  if  it  ever  is." 

So,  unwillingly  enough,  Fenmarsh  accepted  the  charge 
again,  and  the  Summer  passed  on  without  further  inci- 
dent. 

It  was  three  o'clock  of  a  pleasant  afternoon  early  in 
September  that  the  dwellers  on  Height-O'-Land  saw  a 
cloud  of  dust  rising  on  the  Boston  turnpike  leading  into 
Fenmarsh.  Out  of  the  cloud  of  dust  glimmered  a  sheen 
of  gold  lace,  cockades,  and  red  uniforms. 

On  came  the  cavalcade,  attracting  immediate  and  uni- 
versal attention  as  it  swept  along  through  the  village 
street.  Small  boys  gathered  as  if  by  a  miracle,  or  as  if 
a  new  Roderick  Dhu  had  taught  them  to  arise,  as  it 
were,  out  of  the  ground.  Heads  appeared  at  windows. 
All  Fenmarsh  was  agape. 

First  came  two  outriders  in  red  uniforms  and  gilt  trap- 
pings. Their  horses  were  fine  and  fresh.  Then  came  a 
coach  which  was  the  grandest  ever  yet  seen,  at  that  time, 
in  Fenmarsh,  though  it  would  look  clumsy  and  lumber- 
ing enough  to  modern  eyes.  On  the  box  was  mounted 
a  liveried  coachman  with  powdered  wig,  while  a  gor- 
geous footman  rode  at  the  back  of  the  vehicle.  Two 
outriders  followed  at  a  little  remove  behind  the  coach. 

They  paused  in  the  village  street  but  once,  and  that 
was  in  front  of  Mr.  Mellen's  store,  to  ask  if  it  were 
known  to  him  where  dwelt  a  certain  Mr.  Tobias  Fuller. 

It  was  the  footman  who  sought  this  information,  and 
when  it  was  given,  he  sprang  back  to  his  place,  and  on 
went  the  procession  till  it  turned  the  curve  leading  to 


238  White   Butterflies. 

the  Height-O'-Land  road,  passed  the  small  white  cottage 
once  occupied  by  the  Maitlands,  and  paused  at  last  be- 
fore the  low,  comfortable  farm-house  of  Constable  To- 
bias Fuller.  At  a  discreet  remove  lingered  the  motley 
crowd  of  curious  villagers.  Who,  in  the  name  of  the 
Continental  Congress,  were  these  lordly  people,  and 
what  could  they  possibly  want  with  Tobias  Fuller? 

The  footman  opened  the  carriage-door  and  a  gentle- 
man, elegantly  but  plainly  clad,  sprang  to  the  ground. 
He,  in  his  turn,  assisted  a  lady  to  alight.  Her  fair  young 
face  and  stately  bearing  impressed  at  once  the  curious 
lookers-on. 

"You  are  Mistress  Tobias  Fuller,"  said  this  beautiful 
creature  graciously,  "I  am  Elizabeth  Maitland,  of  Mait- 
land  Hall,  Warwickshire,  now  the  Countess  of  El- 
lerslie.  Your  letter  to  me  was  long  delayed  by  falling 
into  the  hands  of  a  wicked  man,  who  had  doubtless  re- 
ceived and  destroyed  many  others.  At  last  it  reached 
me,  however,  and  I  hastened,  as  soon  as  illness  would 
permit,  to  come  to  America.  Where  is  my  mother?" 

Her  tone  was  piteous.  She  evidently  feared  the  worst. 
Could  Mrs.  Fuller  tell  her  that  her  mother  was  a  mind- 
less pauper  at  the  Fenmarsh  town-farm  upon  the  hill? 

That  excellent  woman,  who  had  been  thrown  into  a 
condition  approaching  panic  by  the  sudden  appearance 
of  so  much  scarlet  and  gold,  was  now  thoroughly  off  her 
balance.  Her  honest  face  grew  red  and  white  by  turns, 
while  she  dropped  bewildered  curtsies  from  time  to  time. 
A  countess,  too!  Merciful  heavens!  Poor  Mrs.  Fuller 
felt  that  her  cup  was  full! 

"Do  you  not  know  where  she  is?"  began  the  Countess 
of  Ellerslie  again  in  a  tone  of  the  keenest  distress.  TMs 
lent  Mrs.  Fuller  a  tongue. 


"Ye   Christmas   Witch."         239 

"I  do  indeed,  your  honor — forsooth,"  she  commenced 
in  painful  embarrassment.  "Your  mother  is  alive,  and 
she  is  livin'  with  Mr.  Dick  White,  in  the  low  red  house, 
with  six  maple  trees  before  it,  as  you  go  along  the  first 
road  from  here  that  turns  to  your  right." 

Her  manner  suggested  something  more  than  the  em- 
barrassment which  might  naturally  be  expected  in  an 
humble  village  matron  encountering  a  great  personage. 

"Is — is — she  ill?"  stammered  the  lady  anxiously. 

"She — that  is — she  is  not  quite  well,  mum — you  will 
see,"  was  all  that  good  Mrs.  Fuller  could  say,  and  the 
lady,  handing  over  the  directions  with  great  plainness  to 
the  coachman,  was  shut  into  the  carriage  again,  and  the 
superb  cortege  swept  onward  up  the  hill. 

At  the  poor-house  reigned  the  traditional  calm  which 
is  said  to  precede  the  tempest.  Two  of  the  older  pauper 
women,  gaunt,  hollow-eyed,  unsightly,  sat  on  a  bench  be- 
neath the  maple  trees.  The  only  old  man  among  them  was 
raking  up  a  little  pile  of  rowan  in  the  field  near  by.  A 
half-witted  young  woman,  whose  dull-faced,  fatherless 
child  stood  staring,  thumb  in  mouth,  at  the  robins  in  the 
trees  overhead,  was  helping  to  tidy  the  kitchen.  Her 
name  was  Letitia,  commonly  abbreviated  to  Tishy. 

All  of  these  were  struck  by  a  sort  of  an  electric  paraly- 
sis, as  the  magnificent  escort  of  the  Countess  of  Ellerslie 
hove  in  sight,  climbing  wearily,  but  with  a  certain  eager- 
ness, the  long,  hard  hill.  The  noise  brought  Mother 
Maitland  to  the  front  door.  She  had  been  in  a  garden- 
plot  behind  the  house,  attending  to  her  plants.  As  they 
drew  up,  she  stood  there  in  placid  dignity,  her  lips  mov- 
ing as  they  always  did,  and  her  whole  air,  as  usual,  as  of 
one  in  a  dream. 


240  White   Butterflies. 

Elizabeth  Maitland  could  not  wait  for  the  door  to  be 
opened  for  her. 

"Mother!"  she  screamed,  "Oh,  mother!  I  have  found 
you  at  last.  Don't  you  know  me?  What  is  it?  What 
makes  you  look  so?  Oh,  Arthur,  Arthur,  make  haste — 
she  is  fainting !" 

The  Earl  of  Ellerslie  was  none  too  soon.  As  he 
rushed  to  aid  his  wife,  the  old  woman,  white  as  the  soft 
summer  clouds  floating  in  the  calm  September  sky 
above  her,  fell,  like  one  dead,  into  his  arms.  "Tishy" 
brought  water.  She  was  quite  collected,  but  if  she  had 
known  that  she  was  waiting  upon  a  live  earl,  she  would 
have  fainted  away  more  completely  than  had  Mother 
Maitland.  The  maid  of  the  Countess  ran  hither  and 
thither,  wringing  her  hands.  She  was  far  less  useful 
than  "Tishy." 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  poor  mother  came  to 
herself.  The  scarlet-coated  outriders  dismounted,  and 
lay  down  under  the  trees.  The  grand  coach  was  drawn 
up  beside  the  grassy  road,  and  the  horses  were  tethered 
to  a  stout  sapling.  Yet,  still  on  the  plain  couch  in  the 
rag-carpeted  sitting  room  of  the  poor-house,  large  and 
small  bustled  about,  endeavoring  to  restore  the  poor  de- 
mented creature,  whom,  but  a  few  moments  before,  they 
had  considered  as  hardly  worth  lifting  a  finger  for.  Dick 
White,  himself,  had  gone  for  Doctor  Dow,  and  before 
he  could  return  with  that  functionary,  who  was,  it  is 
needless  to  say,  in  a  white  heat  of  excitement,  a  goodly 
portion  of  the  population  of  Fenmarsh,  and  even  of  the 
adjoining  towns,  were  gathered  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
house,  awaiting  developments. 

At  last,  when  they  were  beginning  to  despair  of  ever 
rousing  her  again,  the  eyes  of  Mother  Maitland  opened 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch."        241 

wide,  and  rested  upon  the  beautiful  face  of  her  long-lost 
daughter.  Then  there  came  a  strange  look  in  them. 
The  terrible  blow  which  had  been  given  to  the  tilted 
brain  had  restored  its  balance.  The  look  was  not  the 
wild,  far-away,  dreamy  look  of  the  last  few  months — it 
was  the  old,  sane  expression  of  the  years  gone  by. 
Mother  Maitland  was  herself  again. 

"I  have  been  in  a  dream,  Elizabeth,"  she  said,  looking 
about  her  with  dilated  eyes.  "I  thought,  dear,  that  it 
was  the  Christmas  morning,  and  I  heard  you  and  Edith 
and  Gerald  singing  carols  under  my  window,  and  it  woke 
me  up." 

.  Thus  the  long  dream  of  Christmas  was  ended,  and  the 
kind,  kind  saint,  who  watches  over  the  Christmas-keep- 
ing, had  restored  this  poor  deluded  one  to  her  own. 

"Poor  mother!"  sobbed  Elizabeth  Maitland — but  how 
poor  she  did  not  know  until  the  next  day,  when  she  ex- 
tracted the  full  history  of  the  trials  of  her  family  from  the 
reluctant  lips  of  the  worthy  Mrs.  Fuller. 

The  blunt,  curt  annals  of  the  town  furnish  the  sequel 
of  the  story: 

"Ye  most  strange  happening  of  ye  yeare  1789  hathe 
beene  ye  law-suits  over  ye  keepe  of  ye  Christmas  witch, 
so-called,  ye  Mistress  Margaret  Maitland." 

Then,  after  describing  at  length  the  law-suits  between 
Fairweather  and  Fenmarsh,  the  chronicler  continues: 

"Ye  suit  would  have  been  opened  again  in  ye  winter 
courte,  but  yt  on  ye  3  day  of  September,  ye  daughter  of 
ye  Mistress  Maitland  did  come,  with  many  servants  and 
a  great  noise  of  horses  and  carriages,  and  take  away  ye 
Mistress  Maitland  to  England.  Ye  daughter,  yt  was 
hight  ye  Countess  of  Ellerslie,  is  of  great  wealth  and 
power.  Ye  letters  from  her  to  her  mother  were  stole  by 
1ft 


242  White  Butterflies. 

ye  wicked  uncle  of  ye  Countess"  (the  word  Countess 
appears  to  have  filled  the  soul  of  the  town  clerk  of  Fen- 
marsh  with  the  keenest  delight,  as  he  lugs  it  in  wherever 
he  can).  "Ye  Countess  hathe  paid  everybody  in  hard 
gold  for  ye  care  of  her  mother.  Ye  Mistress  Fuller  she 
hath  give  two  flowered  gowns  and  a  great  amber  comb 
and  some  spoones  of  solid  silver.  Ye  young  son  of  ye 
Mistress  Fuller,  ye  Countess  will  send  to  ye  college  at 
Hanover,  yt  he  may  have  good  learning.  Ye  Countess 
hath  begged  ye  Mistress  Fuller  yt  she  would  go  to  keep 
Christmas  at  ye  great  house  of  ye  Countess  in  England. 
Ye  minde  of  ye  Mistress  Maitland  hath  beene  clear  and 
bright  since  ye  Countess  hathe  come.  Ye  Parson  Be- 
ment  and  other  Godly  men  held  a  sitting  to  find  out  for 
themselves  what  proofs  were  offered  yt  ye  Mistress  was 
a  witch.  It  is  now  thought  yt  she  was  no  witch.  Ye 
Countess  hath  ordered  yt  ye  bodies  of  her  brother  and 
his  wife  and  child  be  dug  up  and  carried  to  Boston,  to  be 
put  on  ship  for  England.  Ye  Countess  hath  got  back 
ye  inheritance  ye  wicked  uncle  would  have  got  from  her 
family,  so  ye  Mistress  Maitland  is  rich  again.  A  great 
crowd  came  together  to  see  her  start  away  for  England 
in  ye  carriage  with  ye  Countess  on  ye  6  day  of  Septem- 
ber. Ye  Countess  threw  out  handfuls  of  silver  money 
as  they  passed  away  out  of  the  village.  Such  grand 
doings  were  never  seen  in  ye  town  of  Fenmarsh.  Ye 
Grandsir  Laban  Trewis,  yt  was  sure  he  saw  ye  Mistress 
Maitland  dance  around  a  holly-bush  in  ye  kitchen  of  her 
house,  when  ye  Godly  men  asked  him  sharp  about  it,  did 
saye  yt  it  might  be  the  light  of  ye  fire  upon  her,  while 
she  did  walk  about,  so  it  is  thought  yt  she  be  no  witch." 
Which  is  no  more  of  a  "flattening-out"  than  befalls 
many  another  sensational  story  of  to-day  or  yesterday— 


"Ye   Christmas  Witch."        243 

but  Uncle  Laban  Trewis  felt  it  keenly,  and  never  again 
occupied  so  important  a  position  in  Fenmarsh,  as  on  that 
eventful  night  in  the  village  store  when  he  made  the 
blood  curdle  in  every  heart  by  telling  of  poor  proud  Lady 
Maitland's  holly-bush,  and  how  she  did  "dawnce  aroun' 
it." 

And  to  this  day  the  old  people  of  Fairweather  will  tell 
you  how  the  tradition  has  come  down  to  them,  of  the 
grief  which  was  felt  by  the  whole  town,  that  the  Countess 
of  Ellerslie  should  not  have  had  to  drive  with  her  out- 
riders to  Fairweather,  instead  of  to  Fenmarsh,  to  find  her 
mother.  Thus  signally  do  poor,  fallible  mortals  often 
fail  to  recognize  in  time  the  quality  of  Fatel 


Direxia. 


IT  was  a  great  change  for  Eliezer  Denham  and  his 
wife  Eunice  to  go  from  Maine  to  Arkansas  to  live; 
but  a  distant  cousin,  who  had  enticed  them  thither 
early  in  the  fifties,  helped  them  through  their  "chills," 
and  put  in  their  first  "craps"  for  them.  It  took  them  a 
long  time  to  become  acclimated,  and  two  of  their  four 
children  died  in  the  process.  It  seemed  for  a  while  as 
though  Direxia  and  Cyrus,  the  remaining  two,  must 
succumb  also,  but  they  were  evidently  made  of  sterner 
stuff  than  the  others,  for  they  came  out  strong  and 
healthy  in  the  end — as  health  went  on  the  Allowee  River. 
It  was  a  little  black,  unhealthy-looking  river,  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  sparkling,  rapid  New  England  streams 
to  which  the  Denhams  were  accustomed;  but  they  grad- 
ually became  used  to  it,  and,  in  a  way,  proud  of  it,  for 
they  soon  learned  that  it  was  the  centre  of  everything  in 
their  new  home.  The  cluster  of  houses,  a  mile  or  more 
away  from  Eliezer's  modest,  not  to  say  shackly,  farm- 
house, was  known  as  Allowee  Fo'  Corners.  The  rolling 
elevations  in  the  distance  were  the  Allowee  Hills,  the 
county  was  Allowee  County,  and  the  people  were  "Allo- 
wee Folks."  By  the  time  that  Eliezer  and  his  wife  had 
lived  among  the  Allowee  Folks  for  ten  years,  they  were 
as  much  a  part  of  them  as  though  they  had  been  born 
there.  Eunice  "dipped"  with  zest,  and  Eliezer,  who  had 
been  guiltless  of  tobacco  in  their  Maine  home,  went  about 
now  with  his  mouth  full,  and  with  the  regulation  Allowee 
rivulets  of  tawny  juice  oozing  from  each  end  of  that  ir- 
244 


Direxia.  245 

regular  orifice.  They  were  naturalized  now  without  a 
doubt,  though  they  still  retained  the  industrious  and 
orderly  habits  of  their  old  home. 

It  was  amusing  to  hear  the  Yankee  and  the  Arkansas 
idioms  struggling  for  the  mastery  in  the  speech  of  Eliezer 
and  Eunice  during  these  ten  years.  They  had  been  plain, 
poor  farmer-folk  up  in  Maine,  and  their  talk  had  been  the 
essence  of  New  England  dialect,  uncorrupted  by  the 
learning  of  the  schools,  of  which  neither  of  them  had  had 
more  than  a  weather-beaten  red  school-house,  dating 
back  to  Revolutionary  times,  had  given  them.  Direxia 
and  the  baby  Cyrus  grew  up  with  a  pretty  straight  Allo- 
wee  vernacular. 

Direxia,  at  fifteen,  was  long,  lank,  hollow-cheeked 
and  hollow-chested — a  typical  Arkansas  girl.  She  had 
ceased  to  attend  school  at  the  log  school-house,  and  was 
engaged  to  "stan'  up"  in  a  few  weeks  with  Derry  Driggs, 
the  twenty-year-old  son  of  a  neighboring  planter,  of 
about  the  same  status  as  Eliezer  Denham.  She  was  of 
the  sort  that  matures  early  in  tody,  but  late  in  mind. 
Outside,  though  it  was  different  inside,  she  had  taken 
on  the  semblance  of  the  girls  about  her.  Her  dark  hair 
was  drawn  back  tightly  from  her  face,  and  done  into  a 
"waterfall"  at  the  back,  which  was  in  its  turn  covered 
with  a  "net."  Thus  there  was,  as  Mr.  Howells  says, 
ample  scope  afforded  for  the  expression  of  character. 
And  Direxia  had  character.  Her  full,  rather  bulging 
forehead,  long,  curving  nose,  and  square  chin  showed 
this.  But  chiefly  her  eyes,  gray,  deep-set,  and  glowing, 
revealed,  even  in  the  undeveloped  state  in  which  she  re- 
mained when  she  married  Derry  Driggs,  that  there  was  a 
gleam  of  fire  in  her,  inherited  from  some  New  England 
ancestor.  She  was  true  to  the  core  to  the  State  of  her 


246  White   Butterflies. 

adoption,  and  would  not  have  admitted  the  New  Eng- 
land strain;  but  it  was  there,  and  in  due  course  of  time 
it  came  out. 

One  evening  in  early  October,  Direxia  and  her  hus- 
band, who  was  universally  known  along  the  Allowee  as 
"Dank"  Driggs,  were  sitting  in  front  of  a  bright  pine- 
knot  blaze.  A  chilliness  had  come  on  since  the  sun 
went  down,  and  Dank  had  graciously  seconded  Direxia's 
suggestion  that  they  should  have  a  fire,  since  she  evi- 
dently proposed  to  make  it  herself.  They  had  been 
married  five  years  now,  and  there  were  two  children,  who 
were  properly  sleeping  at  this  moment  in  their  trundle- 
bed. 

As  Direxia  went  out  to  gather  a  fresh  apronful  from 
the  pile  of  loose  "wood-trash"  which  lay  beside  the  door 
outside,  a  carriage  rolled  by.  It  contained  a  lady,  a  fine- 
looking,  elderly  gentleman,  and  two  or  three  young  peo- 
ple. Direxia  knew  that  they  were  Judge  Burnley  and  his 
family,  and  that  they  were  from  the  county  town  of  Thrall 
("T'rall"),  ten  miles  away. 

She  came  in,  threw  the  contents  of  her  apron  upon 
the  little  fire  which  she  had  started,  and  then  sat  down 
reflectively  in  its  light.  Dank  was  smoking  stupidly. 

"Yer  a  ornary  houn',  Dank,"  began  Direxia  at  last, 
with  perfect  good-nature. 

Dank  dropped  his  smoking  and  looked  at  her  out  of 
his  wide,  gentle  eyes,  which  sat  in  his  hairy  face  like 
twin  lakes  in  a  region  of  unrestrained  brushwood. 

"I  don'  come  at  what  you-uns  er  aimin'  after,"  he 
admitted,  frankly. 

"Yer  promised  me  ye'd  nail  that  clapboard,  that's 
been  hangin'  off  this  six  months,  and  tinker  that  front 
door  so't  I  could  shet  it.  An'  hyar  comes  along  the 


Direxia.  247 

quality  from  T'rall,  ridin'  in  their  carriages,  an'  seein' 
it  all,  same's  we-uns  was  ornary  niggers.  Pap  don' 
hev  no  sech  goin's  on — not  if  mammy's  roun',  he  don'." 

"I  ben  so  durn  druv,  Rexy,"  pleaded  her  husband, 
tacitly  admitting  the  justice  of  her  rebuke. 

Direxia  sighed. 

"  'Tain't  that,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  as  though 
the  problem  were  one  which  she  had  long  wrestled  with, 
and  had  found  difficult.  "  Tain't  that.  It's  long  o'  yer 
bein'  Allowee  folks.  Lord  knows  they-uns  all  got  thayer 
clapboards  hangin',  an'  thayer  doors  out  o'  jint.  I  'lowed, 
when  I  was  little,  that  everybody  was  thataway.  Pappy 
was  a  heap  more  keerful'n  the  rest — but  he  war'n't  so 
durn  keerful  nayther.  An'  when  I  come  to  go  to  T'rall 
— when  I  got  big  enough  so's  I  war'n't  skeert  to  death, 
an'  could  notice  how  they-uns  had  things — then  I  see't 
wa'n't  any  need  o'  this  yer  lettin'  things  go  so — no  more'n 
o'  lettin'  things  go  in  the  house  yer.  They's  plenty  as 
says  'tain't  no  use  tryin'  to  keep  a  kitchen  up  right  along 
— but  you-uns  know,  Dank,  I  kin  do  it.  It's  shifless- 
ness,  when  women  folks  can't.  I  heer'n  my  mammy  tell 
how  up  to  Maine,  whar  she  was  raised,  they  have  things 
slick  right  along.  Lord  knows,  Dank,  I  hate  the  Yan- 
kees bad  as  you-uns  do.  My  Uncle  Gid  up  thar,  he  wrote 
my  pap  the  meanest  kyind  of  a  letter.  He  called  him  a 
'clay-eater,'  an'  Lord  knows  what,  long  o'  his  writin'  up 
thar  that  they-uns  better  not  be  helpin'  our  niggers  to  git 
to  Canady.  Oh,  he  run  on  jest  turrible.  We-uns  don' 
kyar  for  Maine — but  min'  you,  Dank,  they-uns  has  things 
slick  up  thar,  mammy  says." 

Dank  gave  a  sleepy,  indifferent  grunt.  Direxia  be- 
stowed a  reproachful  look  on  his  hairy  face  in  the  flick- 
ering light. 


248  White  Butterflies. 

"You-uns  was  a  tumble  smart  scholar,  down  to  the 
old  school-house,  when  I  fust  knowed  ye,  Dank,"  she 
began  again,  reflectively. 

Dank  grinned. 

"So  I  heern  ye  say,  Rexy,"  he  acknowledged,  with 
shame-faced  delight. 

"Yes,"  went  on  Direxia,  still  musingly,  "I  'lowed  ye 
was  goin'  to  turn  out  a  powerful  smart  man,  somehow. 
I  do'  know  what  I  thought  ye  was  goin'  fer  to>  do,  but 
I  reckoned  ye  was  goin'  fer  to  do  somethin'  o'  yuther." 

Dank  was  not  so  happy  now,  but  he  still  gazed  at  his 
wife  kindly  enough  from  under  his  shock  of  black  hair. 

"Lawyers  seems  to  be  powerful  likely  sort  o'  fellers," 
she  pursued,  tentatively.  "I  'low  ye  never  let  on,  Dank, 
how  as  ever  ye  could  be  a  lawyer  now?" 

There  was  a  pathetic  look  on  Direxia's  colorless  face, 
which  gave  her  large  features  a  certain  softness.  It 
seemed  to  touch  her  impassive  husband  as  he  watched 
her  curiously  in  the  light  of  the  fire. 

"Sho,  now,  Rexy!"  he  began,  deprecatingly,  "who'd 
ever  'a  'lowed  ye  was  thinkin'  thataway!" 

"I  heern  Jedge  Burnley  down  to  T'rall,  you  know, 
talkin'  how,  if  the  Yanks  don'  quit  foolin'  with  we-uns1 
niggers,  we-uns  was  goin'  fer  to  give  hit  ter  'em — an' 
them  other  fellers  talked  too,  an'  they  said  they  was 
mostly  lawyers.  Ever  since  then  I've  thought  a  heap 
about  they-uns.  They  had  on  good  clo'es,  Dank,  and 
they  talked  so  sort  o'  perlite  like — it  was  nice.  I  re- 
membered how  you-uns  used  to  speak  pieces  down  to  the 
school-house,  an'  I'  lowed  ye  could  have  made  a  likely 
speech  same  as  they-uns,  if  you  was  only  a'  lawyer  long 
o'  them.  What  do  they  have  to  do,  Dank,  to  be  a  law- 
yer? Couldn't  you  be  a  lawyer?" 


Direxia.  249 

"Oh,  gawnamighty,  Rexy!"  cried  her  husband,  ap- 
palled by  the  height  of  her  ambitions,  "you-uns  are 
crazy — fer  a  fac',  I  'low  ye  be!  Why,  gal,  lawyers  has 
to  shave  ev'ry  durn  day  o'  their  lives,  an'  ye  said  yes- 
self  they  had  to  wear  good  clo'es.  An'  they  have  to 
read  stiddy,  I  reckon,  in  them  great  leather-covered 
books  on  a  shelf  in  the  court-house.  I  'low  it  takes  'em 
nigh  onto  a  lifetime  to  git  to  be  a  reg'lar  lawyer — an' 
most  on  'em  has  to  go  to  college,  an'  Lord  knows  what 
all.  Then  they've  got  to  be  'admitted  to  the  bar' — I 
don't  rightly  yunderstan'  it,  Rexy,  but  thar's  a  heap  o' 
trash  like  that  yer.  Why,  thar  wan't  never  none  o'  my 
folks  lawyers.  I  couldn't  be  a  lawyer,  no  more'n  I  could 
be  a — a — dawg,  Rexy.  Who'd  take  keer  o'  you-uns, 
an'  the  young  uns  in  thar,  ef  I  was  to  go  off  tryin'  to 
be  a  lawyer!  I  reckon  all  the  folks  on  the  Allowee  would 
think  I'd  gone  plumb  crazy!"  Dank  gave  a  great 
guffaw,  and  relapsed  into  the  depths  of  his  whiskers 
again,  whence  clouds  of  smoke  soon  began  to  reissue, 
indicating  that  he  was  regaining  his  composure  after 
the  excitement  to  which  his  wife's  insane  fancies  had 
subjected  him. 

Direxia  sighed  a  long,  quivering  sigh.  Nobody  would 
know  how  she  had  tried,  since  she  had  married,  and  had 
begun  to  think,  as  she  had  never  done  in  her  slow, 
unripe  girlhood,  to  work  out  a  grand  destiny  for  her 
yielding,  good-natured  husband — in  her  mind.  He  had 
been  a  good  scholar  for  Allowee  folks,  as  she  had  said, 
and  as  she  had  grown  older,  and  had  begun  to  dimly 
comprehend  the  little  world  in  which  she  lived,  on 
which  a  new  light  had  been  thrown  by  her  mother- 
hood, she  longed  for  a  glimpse  into  the  enchanted 
region  in  which  it  seemed  to  her  that  these  people  from 


250  White  Butterflies. 

Trail  must  live.  If  her  little  "Voylet,"  and  the  baby 
Earl  could  go  with  such  people,  could  ride  in  such  car- 
riages— why,  life  would  be  a  different  thing  to  them 
from  what  it  was  to  her,  and  to  the  dull  and  earthy 
folk  along  the  river  valley.  Thus  dimly  she  had  groped 
through  mazes  of  reasoning,  until  she  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that,  if  Dank  could  occupy  a  different  station 
in  life,  her  children's  future  would  be  assured. 

Her  husband  marked  the  frown  of  reflection  which 
still  lingered  upon  her  brow. 

"Yer  pappy'd  laugh,  I  reckon,  Rexy,  if  I  should  tell 
him  what  you-uns  been  say  in'  to  me,"  he  began  at  length, 
hoping  good-humoredly  to  dissipate  the  shadows  which 
hung  about  her. 

"Don't  ye  tell  him,"  she  exclaimed,  earnestly.  "Now, 
don't  ye  go  fur  to  be  that  mean!" 

He  promised  her,  chuckling  over  the  idea  of  her 
pappy's  dismay,  if  his  daughter's  wild  project  should  ever 
reach  his  ears — but  she  paid  no  heed  to  his  mirth.  She 
was  in  the  grasp  of  what,  for  the  region  of  the  Allowee, 
were  profound  emotions. 

"Ye  see,  somehow,  Dank,"  she  began  after  a  moment's 
thought,  "I'm  sick  sometimes  o'  bein'  jest  nobody  down 
yer  in  Allowee  County.  Pap  an'  mammy — they  think 
I'm  jest  stuck-up  an'  bigotty,  but  I  ain't.  I  don't  be- 
gretch  nothin'  to  Jedge  Burnley's  folks,  only  I  kin  see 
plain  enough  that  they  have  a  heap  better  times  than 
we-uns  do.  All  we-uns  do  is  jest  gittin'  up  in  the  mawn- 
in'  an'  fryin'  a  mess  fer  breakfast,  an'  then  crawlin'  roun', 
an'  washin'  up,  an'  such-like,  an'  then  fryin'  another  mess 
fer  dinner,  an'  then  walkin'  out,  likely,  down  to  Pappy's, 
or  the  Fo'  Corners  or  such  a  matter,  an'  then  fryin'  an- 
other mess  fer  supper,  an'  then  goin'  to  bed.  Then  the's 


Direxia.  251 

goin'  to  church,  an*  camp-meetin'.  That's  better;  but 
seems  to  me,  they-uns  gets  a  heap  more  outen  livin'  than 
we-uns  do." 

"Likely,"  admitted  Dank,  yawning  immoderately,  but 
without  a  thought  of  disrespect  to  his  wife.  "Most  I 
'low  now,  Rexy,  is  I've  got  to  tote  that  truck  to  the  Fo' 
Corners  an'  git  it  started  fer  Memphis  bright  an'  soon 
in  the  mawnin'," — and  Dank  shuffled  off  to  bed. 

Direxia  pondered  over  the  coals  a  little  longer.  Then, 
with  a  long  sigh,  she  raked  them  up,  and  was  soon  asleep 
beside  her  husband.  She  never  approached  him  again 
upon  the  subject  of  changing  his  vocation;  but  when  the 
carriages  of  the  "quality"  rolled  by  her  humble  cabin, 
she  would  look  after  them  longingly,  and  secretly  cherish 
a  hope  that  had  sprung  up  in  her  proud  heart  that  her 
children  might  enjoy  this  better  living,  of  which  she  had 
caught  glimpses  in  her  poor  starved  soul,  even  if  she  and 
her  husband  were  to  be  forever  denied  it. 

When  little  Earl  was  six  years  old,  the  war  broke  out. 
Dank  Driggs  was  not  very  "f  erce"  at  first,  as  the  Allowee 
Folks  expressed  it.  One  night  he  and  Direxia  rode 
over  to  T'rall  to  hear  Judge  Burnley  and  the  other  "law- 
yers" recite  the  outrages  to  which  the  South  had  been 
subjected  by  the  North,  and  to  urge  the  young  men  to 
enlist.  Direxia  came  home  burning  hot. 

"You-uns  got  to  go,  Dank,"  she  said  when  they  were 
fairly  started  on  the  ride  home. 

Even  her  husband's  phlegmatic  temperament  had  been 
stirred.  He  "reckoned  likely"  he  should,  "after  a  spell." 

"You-uns  got  to  go  now,"  insisted  Direxia,  shrilly. 

"Lord,  Rexy,"  protested  Dank,  feebly,  "who  gwine 
put  in  the  craps  fer  you-uns?  Ye'll  starve,  likely,  lessen 
I  put  to  an'  seed  awhile." 


252  White  Butterflies. 

Direxia  yielded  and  gave  him  a  fortnight's  grace. 
Each  night  he -was  so  weary  with  the  incessant  appli- 
cation which  she  required  that  he  could  not  even  get 
over  to  the  Fo'  Corners  for  his  nightly  dram — a  serious 
loss  to  his  comfort.  At  the  end  of  the  two  weeks,  though 
his  work  was  far  Jrom  done,  as  he  declared,  he  enlisted 
with  a  recruiting  agent  who  came  around,  and  left  Di- 
rexia to  manage  the  plantation  as  best  she  might. 

That  year  another  little  one  came,  suffered  awhile 
and  died.  Direxia  struggled  on.  The  children  helped 
her  in  the  fields,  and  her  house,  which  it  had  been  her 
pride  to  keep  neat,  she  left  largely  to  manage  itself. 
The  second  year  Dank  came  home.  He  was  heartily 
sick  of  soldiering,  and  sighed  for  the  flesh-pots  of  his 
own  home  again,  but  there  was  a  draft,  and  he  found 
himself  back  in  the  field,  where  he  staid  until  the  end 
of  the  war,  with  only  occasional  and  brief  visits  to  the 
Allowee.  Dank  never  rebelled  against  authority.  Like 
so  many  of  the  Southern  "pore  whites,"  to  which  class 
he  really  belonged,  though  far  better  off  than  many  of 
them,  he  was  gentle  and  yielding  to  the  point  of  ef- 
feminacy. 

In  1865  Dank  returned  home  for  good — poor  but 
happy.  He  wore  a  corporal's  stripe  on  his  sleeve,  and 
felt  mightily  set  up  thereby.  There  was  another  baby 
now,  and  Direxia  had  managed  the  farm  so  well  that 
it  was  in  better  condition  than  it  had  ever  been  under 
Dank's  supervision. 

One  summer  evening  Dank  was  just  starting  for  the 
Fo'  Corners,  when  Direxia,  who  was  getting  worried  at 
the  habit  of  heavy  drinking  which  he  had  acquired  in 
the  army,  persuaded  him  to  sit  down  outside  a  moment 
and  listen  to  the  reciting  of  a  "piece"  by  Voylet,  who 


Direxia.  253 

was  growing  up  a  bright  and  forward  little  maiden  with 
more  of  beauty  than  her  poor  mother  had  ever  possessed. 
Dank  listened  with  a  glow  of  fatherly  pride,  and  after 
the  child  had  been  sent  to  bed,  having  lingered  so  long 
and  so  comfortably  that  he  felt  loath  to  rise,  he  sat  on, 
smoking  assiduously. 

"Hit's  mighty  pleasant  to  have  ye  roun'  again,  Dank," 
said  Direxia,  contemplating  him,  if  not  with  wifely  pride, 
with  at  least  some  degree  of  affection. 

"Hit's  mighty  nice  to  be  here,  Rexy,"  responded  Dank 
with  profound  civility. 

"I  'low  you-uns  did  right  well,  comin'  off  a  corp'ral 
so,"  continued  Direxia,  with  a  slight  interrogative  in- 
flection in  her  tone. 

"I  reckon,"  rejoined  Dank,  complacently. 

"I  'lowed  ye'd  come  home  a  gineral,  shore,  Dank," 
pursued  his  wife.  Then,  seeing  that  she  had  offended 
him,  she  added  hastily,  "but  hit's  powerful  smart  in 
you-uns  to  git  to  be  a  corp'ral.  They  ain't  many  did  so 
well  in  Allowee  County." 

Dank  simply  grunted. 

"Don'  you-uns  git  some  Ian'  or — or  somethin' — some 
extra  pay  o'  yuther,  fer  bein'  corp'ral,  Dank,  now  the 
war's  over?"  she  asked  a  moment  later. 

"Women  folks  is  durn  fools,"  remarked  Dank,  imper- 
sonally, taking  time  to  blow  out  a  cloud  of  smoke  before 
he  deigned  to  notice  her  question.  "Why,  gal,  hain't 
ye  sensed  it  that  we-uns  are  mustered  out  now?  They 
ain't  no  army  no  more.  Lord!  We  hain't  drawed  no 
pay — not  fer  a  year  or  more!  I  reckon  we-uns  'bleeged 
to  count  ourselves  lucky  to  git  off  with  our  skins,  and 
to  have  a  place  to  settle  down  on !  'Extry  pay!'  Wai — 
not  much!" 


254  White  Butterflies. 

But  Direxia  was  not  to  be  driven  from  her  main  point, 
even  by  such  scorn  as  this. 

"Dank,  tell  me  this,"  she  began  a  moment  later,  "an' 
I  won't  pester  you-uns  no  more.  Ain't  a  corp'ral  as  big 
as  a  jedge  now?" 

"Hit's  diffrunt,"  began  Dank,  philosophically,  after 
something  of  a  pause. 

"Yes,  hit's  diffrunt,"  she  repeated,  eagerly,  "but  ain't 
it  somethin'  like?  Don't  corp'rals  go  to  Congress,  an' 
git  to  be  somebody  more'n  Allowee  Folks?" 

"Huccom  ye  sech  a  durn  fool!"  he  cried  savagely — 
for  him — "I  cayn't  make  out  head  nor  tail  to  yer  talk 
nohow.  I  'low  I'm  allers  goin'  to  live  down  yer  on  the 
Allowee  now  I've  got  back  yer.  Hit  was  good  enough 
for  my  pap,  an'  your  pap,  an'  hit's  good  enough  fer  me. 
Go  to  Congress!  Lord!  They  ain't  any  Southerners 
goin'  to  Congress  for  one  while,  not  ef  they-uns  up 
Nawth  can  help  it,  you  bet!  Congress!  I  'low  ye're 
goin'  crazy,  shore,  Rexy!" 

Dank  rose  and  shuffled  off  to  the  Fo'  Corners,  whence 

he  returned  very  drunk  two  or  three  hours  later.     The 

last  spark  of  hope  in   Direxia's  heart  that  the  social 

position  of  herself  and   her  children   was   ever  to   be 

'  bettered  by  her  husband,  was  out. 

She  devoted  herself  now  to  the  training  of  her  chil- 
dren, and  almost  spoiled  her  health  and  her  head  in 
trying  to  help  them — she  had  some  dim  notion  of 
helping  herself  also — in  the  long  evenings  when  Dank 
was  away  with  his  mates,  and  the  younger  children  were 
asleep.  Then  a  fifth  child  came,  but,  though  Direxia 
tended  him  with  feverish  care,  he  sickened  and  died 
before  he  was  three  years  old.  The  one  next  older, 
the  brightest  and  prettiest  of  them  all,  a  boy  on  whom 


Direxia.  255 

she  had  set  bright  hopes,  followed  him.  Earl  was  heavy- 
faced,  gentle  and  forceless  like  his  father;  but  Direxia 
would  not  admit  even  to  herself  that  he  was  not  so 
"likely"  as  "Voylet." 

At  fifteen  Voylet  was  a  beauty  for  the  Allowee.  She 
had  learned,  as  her  fond  mother  told  her  neighbors, 
everything  that  could  be  learned  in  the  valley,  and  in 
the  fall  she  was  going  to  T'rall  to  school.  By  saving 
and  pinching,  in  the  true  New  England  fashion — though 
Direxia  might  have  stopped  it  if  she  had  suspected 
that  she  was  copying  so  reprehensible  a  model — she  had 
amassed  a  little  fund,  to  which  she  was  constantly  add- 
ing, by  the  most  incessant  labor,  for  the  education  of 
her  children.  No  lawyer,  nor  anybody  else,  she  was 
determined,  should  hold  his  head  above  her  children, 
on  account  of  superior  knowledge.  With  an  innate 
acuteness  which  seized  and  held  fast  the  best  of  the  con- 
clusions at  which  she  arrived  by  slow  and  painful  mental 
processes,  she  had  discerned  that  education  was  the  key 
to  that  broader  existence  which  she  coveted  for  her  chil- 
dren, and  she  proposed  to  devote  her  life  to  securing  it 
for  them. 

Her  father  and  mother  did  not  survive  the  war  many 
years.  They  lived  long  enough  to  hear  from  their  North- 
ern friends  of  the  sad  changes  which  had  taken  place 
during  the  five  or  six  years  which  had  passed  since  they 
had  written  last;  and  to  learn,  in  the  most  chaste  and  ex- 
plicit New  England  plain  speech,  that  they  were  regarded 
as  "Rebs"  of  the  blackest  dye,  and  as  cut  off  forever  from 
the  sweet  influences  of  family  affection.  Eliezer  retorted 
in  kind,  and  he  and  Eunice  gave  up  at  last  a  hope  which 
they  had  secretly  cherished  to  go  back  to  their  old  home 
some  time  and  "see  the  folks."  In  the  better  land  to 


256  White   Butterflies. 

which  they  departed  soon  afterward,  a  land  to  which  they 
might  have  remained  strangers  for  years  to  come  if  they 
had  only  staid  under  the  shadows  of  the  salubrious  blue 
hills  of  the  North,  instead  of  subjecting  their  ignorant 
Maine  constitutions  to  the  miasms  of  the  Allowee — in 
that  better  land,  no  doubt,  their  foolish  quarrels  were  all 
settled. 

Cyrus  succeeded  to  his  father's  plantation,  but  the 
money  which  the  old  people  had  saved,  considerably  over 
a  thousand  dollars,  despite  the  ravages  of  the  war,  fell 
to  Direxia.  She  put  it  hungrily  by  for  her  children, 
though  Dank  thought  he  knew  of  other  ways  to  spend 
it.  Direxia,  despite  her  love  for  him,  on  this  one  mat- 
ter was  adamant.  Those  children  were  going  to  be  edu- 
cated. 

?.  Cyrus  had  not  turned  out  to  be  essentially  different 
[from  the  small  planters  around  him.  He  drank  more 
than  was  good  for  him,  and  his  "shif'less"  young  wife, 
who  had  once  been  the  belle  of  the  Allowee,  had  faded 
in  a  few  years  to  be  a  dragged-out-looking  woman,  with 
the  clayey  complexion  and  lustreless  eyes  which  char- 
acterized the  female  portion  of  the  Allowee  folks.  Her 
children  were  neglected,  her  house  was  worse  even  than 
the  average  of  her  neighbors',  and  Direxia  hated  to  go 
to  the  poor  cabin  which  her  mother  had  kept  spotlessly 
neat  through  so  many  years.  But  Cyrus  did  not  seem 
to  mind  it. 

"I've  heern  tell  as  how  they's  colleges  fer  gyurls  now- 
adays, same  as  they  is  fer  boys,"  Direxia  told  her  husband 
one  day,  shortly  after  she  learned  of  the  amount  of 
money  which  had  come  to  her  from  her  parents.  "If 
they  is,  I  reckon  Voylet  is  goin'." 

Dank  had  no  opinion  of  this  putting  forward  of  worn- 


Direxia.  257 

an-bodies,  and  he  said  so,  but  Direxia  was  far  in  ad- 
vance of  him,  and,  indeed,  of  her  entire  section.  Voylet 
was  going  to  have  the  best  kind  of  an  education  that 
was  to  be  had,  and  if  colleges  supplied  that,  why,  to  a 
college  Voylet  should  go. 

In  the  fall,  as  Direxia  had  "reckoned,"  Voylet  went 
to  Trail.  A  boarding-place  was  found  for  her  in  a  re- 
spectable family  who  had  moved  into  town  from  the  Allo- 
wee.  Friday  nights  some  one  drove  in  for  her  and 
brought  her  home. 

But  one  night  in  February,  when  the  journey  to  town 
had  been  made  with  infinite  labor  through  liquid  miles 
of  mud,  Earl  came  home  without  Voylet.  He  brought 
a  lady-like  note  from  that  highly-educated  young  per- 
son, saying  that  the  roads  were  so  "tumble"  that  she 
thought  she  wouldn't  go  home  this  week,  especially 
as  she  had  an  invitation  to  attend  a  concert  the  next 
evening  and  was  having  a  powerful  good  time. 

Direxia  sniffed  trouble  immediately.  The  next  morn- 
ing she  went  in  person,  and  brought  her  daughter  home. 
She  learned  then,  what  she  had  dimly  suspected  before, 
that  Voylet's  young  affections  were  fixed  upon  a  mascu- 
line object  in  the  person  of  a  journeyman  plumber  in 
Trail.  Direxia  wept  and  pleaded,  but  as  the  weeks  went 
on,  she  saw  that  there  was  no  use  in  opposition.  Voylet 
was  wilful  and  spoiled,  the  young  man  seemed  a  "likely 
enough"  sort  of  a  fellow,  and  devoted  to  her.  Dank 
thought  it  was  a  heap  better  for  "the  gyurl  to  settle  down 
as  gyurls  should,  stid  o'  settin'  out  to  git  a  heap  o'  'larnin' 
they  hadn't  no  use  fer" — and,  in  the  May  following  the 
Trail  educational  experiment,  Voylet  was  married,  and 
after  a  trip  to  Memphis  she  "settled  down"  in  a  little 
home  of  her  own. 
17 


258  White   Butterflies. 

Now,  Direxia  concentrated  all  her  hopes  upon  Earl. 
The  boy  was  not  stupid,  and  when  he  left  the  log  school- 
house,  where  he  had  had  a  year  of  instruction  from  the 
best  teacher  that  the  Allowee  had  ever  known,  it  was 
predicted  that  by  a  year  more  of  solid  study  he  might 
be  ready  to  enter  the  college  in  the  next  county,  to 
which  Direxia's  ambition  had  turned.  The  young  teacher 
had  taken  the  pains  to  tutor  Earl  out  of  school  hours 
for  a  little  extra  pay,  and  had  had  a  faculty  of  interesting 
the  boy,  so  that  he  had  really  done  well.  He  was  ac- 
cordingly sent  to  school  in  T'rall,  just  as  his  sister  had 
been,  only  he  boarded  with  her,  and,  to  do  her  justice, 
she  attempted  to  second  her  mother's  projects.  He 
worked  through  the  year  and  came  home  in  June,  having 
accomplished  his  task. 

That  summer  Cyrus  wanted  extra  hands,  and  Earl 
went  over  to  the  old  homestead  and  staid  several  weeks 
with  him.  He  earned  some  money  by  this  means,  but 
he  acquired  a  habit  which  was  worse  than  any  lack  of 
money.  Officious  neighbors  brought  the  news  of  it  to 
Direxia.  They  thought  she  would  not  mind  it  much. 
Dank  drank  enough,  heaven  knew.  But  there  were  not 
so  many  hopes  pinned  to  Dank  as  to  Earl.  Direxia  was 
wild  at  the  thought  of  her  son's  future  being  imperilled 
by  a  possible  appetite  for  liquor,  and  she  had  long  talks 
with  the  boy  on  the  subject  before  he  started  for  col- 
lege in  the  fall.  He  made  her  many  fair  promises,  but 
before  another  summer  came  around,  he  was  expelled 
for  getting  into  some  scrape  while  he  was  not  himself, 
and  he  came  home  to  find  his  mother  heart-broken. 

The  boy  was  sorry,  but  he  was  too  shallow  and  too 
easy-going  to  feel  his  disgrace  and  her  disappointment 
very  long;  and  as  Dank,  who  had  had  the  "middlin' 


Direxia.  259 

poorlys"  ever  since  his  army  life,  and  had  not  lived  in 
a  way  to  get  over  them,  sickened  during  the  spring, 
and  was  not  able  to  do  a  stroke  of  work  all  the  season, 
the  boy  had  his  hands  full.  In  the  fall  Dank  died,  and 
poor  Direxia  mourned  him  sincerely.  The  next  year 
she  and  Earl  managed  the  plantation  together.  He  did 
not  conquer  his  habits,  but  he  was  fond  of  her,  and, 
with  the  overweening  love  of  a  mother,  she  had  man- 
aged to  forgive  him,  outwardly  at  least. 

The  year  following,  Earl  was  twenty-one.  The  wom- 
en on  the  Allowee  were  old  at  forty,  and  though  Direxia 
was  not  much  more  than  that,  she  felt  that  her  life  was 
spent.  She  had  cherished  her  poor  little  ideals,  but  she 
had  seen  them  shattered;  and  since  Dank's  death  she 
had  felt  that  she  had  little  to  live  for. 

Earl,  like  all  of  the  young  fellows  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, among  whom  he  had  lost  none  of  prestige  by  his 
escapades,  spent  every  evening  away  from  home,  and 
usually  in  the  store  at  the  Fo'  Corners.  He  was  re- 
garded as  an  oracle  among  his  companions.  His  lan- 
guage was  good,  and  he  knew  more  than  any  other 
young  man  upon  the  Allowee.  There  had  been  some 
talk  about  his  studying  law,  but  even  his  ambitious 
mother  did  not  encourage  him  to  do  so.  She  had  a 
blind  feeling  that,  so  long  as  he  was  at  home  where 
she  could  look  after  him,  he  would  not  go  quite  to  the 
dogs.  She  was  not  so  sure  of  it,  if  he  should  try  to 
shift  for  himself.  Earl,  though  he  enjoyed  the  distinc- 
tion awarded  him  by  his  companions,  seemed  utterly 
destitute  of  aspiration.  It  had  seemed  to  be  his  duty, 
after  his  father's  death,  to  stay  with  his  mother,  and  to 
carry  on  the  plantation  as  well  as  he  could.  He  had 
been  content  to  rest  in  that  place. 


260  White    Butterflies. 

One  night  he  came  home  soberer  than  usual.  Direxia 
did  not  always  sit  up  for  him,  but  to-night  she  had  hap- 
pened to.  His  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  he  looked 
handsome,  though  he  had  never  been  thought  so  good- 
Jooking  as  his  sister. 

"I've  got  some  news  for  you,  mother,"  he  began,  al- 
most before  he  had  opened  the  door. 

A  sudden  dread  smote  her  heart.  She  had  picked  up 
some  of  the  phrases  of  civilization  from  her  children, 
but  in  her  excitement  she  reverted  to  the  old  vernacular 
in  which  she  first  talked  and  in  which  she  thought. 

"You-uns  struck  me  all  of  a  heap,  Earl,"  she  began, 
tremulously,  "but  I  'low  it's  good  news  by  yer  looks." 

"You're  right  it  is,"  he  rejoined,  with  smiling  pride. 
"Jinny  Powers  is  going  to  marry  me.  I've  made  her 
set  the  day  already.  I  told  her  everything  was  ready 
here  for  her,  and  I  knew  you  were  lonesome.  She  says 
the  wedding  may  come  off  the  first  of  March." 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  January.  Direxia  drew  a 
quick  breath.  She  could  not  even  congratulate  her  boy, 
though  the  girl  was  well  enough,  and  she  could  see  that 
he  was  perfectly  happy.  She  sat  dumb. 

"Speak  out,  mammy!"  he  cried,  with  a  spice  of  mas- 
culine sternness  in  his  tone.  "Ain't  you  glad?  Ain't  I 
a  lucky  fellow?  Half  the  boys  on  the  Allowee  are  after 
Jinny — and  she's  going  to  have  me!" 

"Hit's  powerful  pleasant,  I  'low,"  stammered  Direxia, 
"I  hope  you'll  make  her  a  good  husband,  Earl — I'm 
shore  I  do — an'  that  she'll  make  you  a  good  wife.  I — I 
ain't  so  dreadful  lonesome — 'cept  long  o'  missin'  your 
pappy — an'  'tain't  likely  she's  goin'  to  be  like  he  was  to 
me." 

"Poor  mammy!"  cried  the  young  man,  too  full  of 


Direxia.  26i 

happiness  to  reproach  her  for  not  entering  more  fully 
into  his  joy.  "You've  had  a  hard  time — but  you'll  like 
Jinny  and  she'll  like  you,  and  we'll  enjoy  ourselves  now, 
you'll  see." 

But  to  Direxia  the  thought  of  having  this  giddy  young 
Jinny  Powers  come  into  her  own  home  as  the  mistress 
thereof  was  very  hard.  She  went  to  bed  weeping  un- 
reasonably, and  all  through  the  next  day  she  could  not 
keep  her  thoughts  on  her  work.  Her  shining  kitchen! 
There  was  none  like  it  on  the  Allowee.  Jinny  Powers 
would  doubtless  allow  her  mother-in-law  the  privilege 
of  keeping  it  clean  in  the  future,  as  she  had  done  in  the 
past — but  Direxia  was  not  sure  that  she  should  thor- 
oughly enjoy  that  privilege  under  the  changed  con- 
ditions of  her  life. 

Earl  went  off  soon  after  supper  the  next  evening,  and 
Direxia  sat  down  beside  the  lamp  and  gazed  into  the 
fire  through  the  tears  which  rolled  silently  down  her 
cheeks  from  time  to  time.  At  last,  from  sheer  weari- 
ness of  her  thoughts,  she  picked  up  the  county  paper, 
published  at  Trail,  and  glanced  idly  over  its  columns. 
She  regarded  with  pride  the  advertisement  of  the 
plumbers  for  whom  Voylet's  husband  worked.  Then 
she  read  a  story,  at  the  silly  sentimentalism  of  which 
the  hard-headed — yet,  after  all,  fiercely  sentimental — old 
woman  sniffed  disdainfully.  Then  she  turned  to  a  col- 
umn of  local  advertisements,  and  one  among  them  caught 
her  eye.  She  read  it  over  several  times.  It  said: 
"Wanted,  a  matron  for  the  new  orphan  asylum,  at  once. 
Apply  to  Mrs.  Judge  Burnley." 

"A  matron!"  reflected  Direxia.  "I  don't  exactly  know 
what  a  matron  is.  I  reckon  it's  somebody  to  look  after 
the  housekeepin'  for  them  pore  little  things.  I  reckon 


262  White  Butterflies. 

she'd  likely  have  to  see  that  the  house  was  scrubbed 
clean,  and  the  young  'uns  too,  an'  see  to  the  cookin'  an' 
such-like." 

"That  yer  would  likely  be  powerful  hard  work,"  she 
pursued  a  moment  later.  "Hit's  a  mighty  big  buildin', 
that  yer  orphan  asylum.  I  seen  hit  when  I  was  to  T'rall 
many  a  time.  I  'lowed  hit  was  nigh  about  finished  up. 
Likely  they're  ready  to  move  into  it.  They's  a  heap 
o'  orphans,  I  heern  tell,  an'  now  hit's  got  too  small  fer 
'em  in  the  old  place — pore  little  things,  their  pappies 
was  killed  in  the  war.  I'd  like  right  well  to  do  'em  a 
good  turn  myself." 

The  next  morning,  Direxia  put  on  her  best  mourn- 
ing bonnet  and  shawl,  and,  harnessing  a  mule  with  her 
own  hands,  started  for  T'rall,  with  the  dimmest  possible 
ideas  as  to  what  she  was  going  to  do.  She  went  at  once 
to  the  grand  residence  of  Judge  Burnley. 

It  was  well  along  in  the  twilight  when  Direxia  and  the 
mule  were  on  their  homeward  way.  There  had  been  old 
neighbors  of  the  Driggses  in  T'rall,  to  whom  Direxia 
had  referred  Mrs.  Burnley.  They  all  testified  to  Direxia's 
capabilities  as  a  housekeeper,  in  the  Allowee  meaning 
of  the  word.  They  told  how  she  had  run  the  farm  when 
her  husband  had  been  away.  They  said  "  'Meers  Dank 
Driggs  passed  fer  a  powerful  smart  woman"  up  Allowee 
way. 

Direxia  was  going  to  undertake  to  be  matron  of  the 
great  new  orphan  asylum,  at  a  salary  which  seemed  to 
her  too  munificent  to  be  true.  As  she  rode  along,  her 
thoughts  kept  time  to  the  jogging  of  the  old  mule, 
something  like  this:  "Wai,  Rexy  Driggs!  what  in  time 
would  Dank  say  if  he  was  to  know  this  yer?  Likely 
as  not  he  does  sense  it  up  thar" — and  Direxia  turned 


Direxia.  i     263 

her  face  reverently  toward  the  sky,  "Like  as  not  he's  a 
laughin'  fit  to  kill,  same  as  he  uster,  when  he  was  tickled 
hyar.  Wai,  he  wouldn't  strike  out  to  be  a  lawyer  nor 
a  gineral.  He  was  boun'  fer  to  be  a  planter  down  in  the 
bottom  of  the  Allowee,  an'  so  he  was.  I  ain't  sayin' 
but  it  was  best  so,"  with  a  guilty  thought  that  she  was 
doing  her  kind,  weak  husband  an  injustice — "but  I  al- 
ways did  think  that  Dank  Driggs  could  have  took  his 
place  to  be  more  'count  than  ever  he  set  up  to  be.  Then 
I  was  powerful  onhappy  because  Voylet  up  an'  got  mar- 
ried so — before  she  had  come  to  bein'  sensible,  's  ye 
might  say.  I  wanted  Voylet  to  be  like  Jedge  Burnley's 
gals,  and  them  as  they  goes  with,  but  she  ain't.  She's  a 
nice  gal — Voylet  is — an'  she  takes  powerful  good  keer  of 
her  babby — but  she's  a  livin'  along,  fer  all  I  see,  not  much 
better'n  I  always  was  on  the  Allowee — and  I  meant  she 
should  have  something  a  heap  better.  I  do'  know  as 
she  was  to  blame.  Likely  she  couldn't  see  it  as  I  do. 
An'  then  thar's  Earl.  I  always  thought  he  was  the  like- 
liest boy  in  Allowee  County.  He  mought  have  gone  to 
Congress — he  mought  have  been  President  likely,  if — 

if ,"   Direxia   could   not  name   even  to  herself  the 

cause  of  the  failure  of  her  idol  .to  come  up  to  her  hopes 
of  him.  She  sobbed  aloud  as  she  rattled  over  the  rough 

road.     "But "  gathering  her  strength  with  a  long 

sigh — "likely  he  won't  git  much  worse.  Likely  Jinny 
Powers'll  change  him.  He's  boun'  to  be  the  bigges'  man 
on  the  Allowee,  'out'en  he  gits  worse.  But  'tain't  what 
I  planned  fer  him.  An'  now,  after  all  this  projeckin'  to 
git  the  res'  to  start  out  in  the  worl'  an'  be  different — 
the  old  woman  herself  has  had  to  do  it  fer  'em."  She 
laughed  to  herself,  doubtful  as  she  really  felt  in  her 
modest  soul  of  her  capacity  to  do  the  work  which  she 


264  White   Butterflies. 

had  undertaken.  "She's  set  out  to  be  somebody,  an' 
she  don'  mean  to  give  up  till  she's  wore  to  a  plumb 
frazzle." 

Direxia  felt  an  exaltation  akin  to  that  with  which 
a  sculptor  regards  the  shape  of  the  clay  toward  which 
his  thought  has  long  been  tending,  but  which  has  hith- 
erto eluded  his  yearning  touch.  To  her  simple  soul  it 
was  an  ambition  of  the  loftiest  kind  to  become  the  matron 
of  an  orphan  asylum. 

For  twenty  years  Direxia  Driggs  labored  in  the  sphere 
to  which  she  had  been  called  by  the  chance  reading 
of  the  T'rall  paper  that  night.  She  became  the  pet  of  the 
directors  of  the  institution,  who  numbered  some  of  the 
leading  women  of  the  county.  Her  juicy  idioms,  her 
strong  yet  gentle  character,  her  loving  devotion  to  duty, 
made  her  the  friend  and  favorite  of  them  all.  When 
she  died  in  188 — ,  the  mourning  for  her  was  more  like 
the  mourning  for  a  great  hero  of  the  war  than  for  "only 
a  woman" — a  plain,  homely  woman  from  the  Allowee. 
She  had  instilled  into  the  children  who  had  been  under 
her  care  her  own  lofty  ambitions.  She  had  lived  to  see 
some  of  them  realize  her  hopes  for  them — hopes  which 
had  been  almost  as  fervent  as  those  which  she  had  cher- 
ished for  her  own  children,  and  which  had  ended  so  mis- 
erably. In  the  broader  life  which  she  had  entered 
in  her  new  sphere  of  labor  she  had  found  the  happiness 
which  she  had  hoped  for.  It  had  been  a  realization  such 
as  is  seldom  granted  to  mortals. 

The  lawn  which  stretches  out  in  front  of  the  orphan 
asylum  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  the  South.  Mag- 
nolia and  tulip  trees,  pink  judas  trees,  bowers  covered 
with  the  vines  of  the  multiflora  rose — all  of  the  choicest 
products  of  that  favored  clime  have  been  taught  to  grow 


Direxia.  285 

there;  but  on  a  little  knoll,  clear  and  high  amid  this 
luxuriance  of  greenery  and  bloom,  all  the  shrubs  and 
trees  have  been  cut  away,  and  only  the  velvet  grass  is 
reverently  allowed  to  grow.  The  knoll  is  crowned  by 
a  costly  statue.  It  was  carved  by  one  of  the  foremost 
of  living  sculptors,  and  represents  a  woman  in  cap  and 
spectacles — a  homely,  large-featured  old  woman — but 
with  a  look  upon  her  face  which  is  an  inspiration  to  every- 
one who  beholds  it. 

On  the  base  of  the  statue,  cut  deep  into  the  living 
stone,  is  the  name  "Direxia  Driggs."  "This  woman,"  the 
inscription  goes  on  to  say,  "though  her  lot  lay  always 
among  the  humble  and  afflicted,  ever  reached  forward  to 
the  things  which  are  before,  and  taught  to  all  about  her 
the  sacred  lesson  that  mortals  should  make  the  most  of 
such  gifts  as  the  providence  of  God  bestows.  She  rests 
from  her  labors,  and  her  works,  yea,  even  the  praise 
of  a  mighty  host  of  those  for  whom  she  unselfishly  toiled, 
do  follow  her." 

Those  who  know  all  of  Direxia's  pathetic  story  can- 
not behold  without  tears  the  beautiful  memorial,  in  its 
inexpressible  simplicity  and  dignity. 

Voylet  and  Earl  come  there  sometimes,  and  bring  their 
children  to  gaze  upon  the  statue.  They  often  say  dully, 
"It  is  monstrous  strange  how  mammy  was  for  pushin' 
us  all  on  to  be  somebody,"  and  shake  their  heads.  Their 
hearts  ache  dumbly — even  Earl's,  under  his  sodden  skin — 
for  the  pangs  which  they  know  they  caused  her.  But 
it  was  not  in  them  to  be  like  her.  They  will  be  Allowee 
Folks  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 


Lyddy  Washburrf  s  Courtship. 


HE  prettiest  girl  in  Franklin  County."  That  was 
what  they  called  Lyddy  Washburn.  Brown- 
haired,  blue-eyed,  pink-cheeked,  red-lipped,  of 
a  tall  and  slender  figure,  and  a  graceful  and  spirited  car- 
riage, the  youngest  and  only  surviving  daughter  of  a 
well-to-do  farmer — what  wonder  that  from  far  and  near 
suitors  came  for  Lyddy  Washburn's  hand?  But  "Law!" 
said  that  young  woman,  many  times  over,  "there  ain't  no 
hurry  at  all  about  my  marry  in'  and  settlin'  down."  Which 
in  those  days  was  rank  heresy,  Lyddy's  mother  having 
been  married  at  fourteen,  and  all  Lyddy's  mates  being 
settled  in  homes  of  their  own,  leaving  that  independent 
young  woman  to  the  tender  mercies  of  a  younger  set  of 
companions  by  the  time  she  was  twenty-two  years  old. 
But  Lyddy  tossed  her  head,  looked  in  her  glass,  and  sang 
the  more  blithely  over  her  wheel  and  her  churn. 

"Now,  Lyddy,"  her  mother  said  one  day,  "why  don't 
you  marry  Jotham  Hunter?  He's  a  likely  young  fellow  as 
ever  lived,  and  sets  consid'able  store  by  you." 

"Jotham  Hunter!"  laughed  Miss  Lyddy.  "Law,  moth- 
er, he's  got  red  hair!" 

"Wa'al,  his  heart's  right,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Washburn. 

"No  use,  mother,"  said  her  fractious  daughter.  "You 
can't  get  rid  of  me  yet  awhile;  and  don't  ever  say 
'Jotham  Hunter'  to  me  again." 

"Wa'al,  tell  me  one  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Washburn,  her 
ill-concealed  anxiety  making  her  voice  sound  strained 
266 


Lyddy  Washburn's  Courtship.    267 

and  unnatural.  "You  hain't — now,  Lyddy,  you  hain't, 
be  you? — a-goin'  to  take  Tart  Taylor?" 

A  bright  flush  swept  over  Miss  Lyddy's  beautiful  face. 

"Who  said  I  was  a-goin'  to  'take  Tart  Taylor/  Mother 
Washburn?"  she  said,  a  little  sternly.  "Better  wait  till  I 
get  a  chance,  I  think!  An'  if  I  was  a-goin'  to  'take  Tart 
Taylor,'  I'd  like  to  know  what's  the  reason  he  ain't  as 
good  as  Jotham  Hunter?" 

"Wa'al,"  said  the  old  lady,  slowly  (she  always  began 
with  "Wa'al"),  "they  do  say  that  Tart  can't  keep  from 
liquor;  and  though" — here  Mrs.  Washburn  no  doubt 
voiced  the  feeling  of  everybody  in  those  days — "though 
every  man  must  have  his  dram,  yet  there  ain't  no  sense 
in  gettin'  drunk  at  every  raisin'  an'  trainin'  an'  cattle 
show,  as  they  tell  on  Tart  Taylor;  an'  he's  got  his 
mother  to  take  care  of;  an'  no  daughter  o'  mine,  Lyddy 
Washburn,  shall  ever  live  with  that  cross-grained,  ugly 
old  Aunt  Betty  Taylor!"  and  the  old  lady — for  she  was 
well  along  in  years,  Lyddy  being  the  youngest  of  thir- 
teen children — stood  up  defiantly  before  her  daughter, 
her  excitement  giving  her  unwonted  courage. 

Lyddy  Washburn's  temper  was  roused,  and  she 
glanced  at  her  mother  with  a  contemptuous  expression, 
like  the  spoiled  child  that  she  was. 

"You'd  better  be  savin'  your  advice,  mother "  she 

began,  in  a  high,  clear  voice,  when  suddenly  a  long  shad- 
ow fell  across  the  room  from  the  doorway,  and  "Cap'n 
Tart" — (Mr.  Tertius  Taylor  was  called  "captain"  from 
the  fact  that  he  was  an  officer  of  the  militia) — stood  before 
them,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

Mrs.  Washburn  tossed  her  head,  and  turned  away  with 
a  stiff  nod,  while  Lyddy,  with  a  heightened  color  and 
unwonted  nervousness  of  manner,  welcomed  the  stately 


268  White   Butterflies. 

newcomer,  whose  military  bearing  and  critical  taste  in 
the  matter  of  his  female  companions  had  set  half  the  girls 
in  the  county  wild  over  him.  It  had  been  easy  to  see  for 
some  weeks  now  that  Captain  Tart  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  "have  Lyddy  Washburn,"  and  that  that  captious  dam- 
sel was  more  complaisant  toward  him  than  toward  any 
of  her  other  suitors. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  May.  The  lilacs  were  budded 
in  the  front  door  yard,  and  the  apple  trees  pink  with 
bloom — a  dangerous  time  for  young  folks  in  the  state  of 
mind  of  these  two,  had  thought  cautious  Mrs.  Washburn, 
and,  not  approving  the  match  at  all,  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  warn  Lyddy  in  such  a  way  that  the  immediate 
danger  should  be  tided  over;  but  by  her  precipitance  she 
had  ruined  everything,  and  she  felt  it,  for  the  girl's 
blushes  had  convinced  her  that  Lyddy's  heart  was 
touched  by  Captain  Tart's  manly  graces,  and  perhaps 
by  that  very  wildness  which  often  seems  to  captivate 
when  it  should  repel. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Mrs.  Washburn,  retailing  the  story 
to  her  husband  that  evening — "the  fact  is,  'Liakim,  our 
Lyddy's  in  love  with  that  ere  Tart  Taylor.  What  ails 
the  girl?" 

"  'Tain't  no  use,"  said  sensible  'Liakim  Washburn, 
who  was  too  sleepy  to  argue,  and  too  fond  of  Lyddy  to 
think  of  opposing  her — "  'tain't  no  use,  Mirandy,  a-med- 
dlin'  in  love  matters.  What  'ud  'a'  been  the  use,  now, 
a-meddlin'  'twix'  you  an'  me?"  and  with  this  half- 
facetious,  half-tender  reminiscence  the  old  farmer  took  up 
his  candle  and  went  to  bed. 

That  afternoon  quite  a  scene  had  taken  place-- between 
"Cap'n  Tart"  and  Lyddy,  and  though  they  did  not  know 
it,  they  passed  then  the  turning  point  of  their  lives;  for 


Lyddy  Washburn's  Courtship.    269 

Lyddy,  in  her  excited  state,  was  just  impressionable 
enough,  and  enough  roused  in  his  favor,  by  her  defense 
of  Captain  Tart,  to  make  this  meeting  the  decisive  one. 
But  she  did  not  forget  herself. 

"Won't  you  come  in,  Cap'n  Taylor?"  she  said,  cor- 
dially, and  with  apparent  calmness. 

"No,  thankee,"  said  Captain  Tart,  eyeing  the  old  lady 
uneasily;  "I  come  to  see  you  a  minit  'bout  suthin'.  S'pose 
you  walk  down  the  border  with  me,  an'  look  at  them 
posies  you  was  tellin'  of  down  to  Jerushy  Willitts's." 

So  Lyddy  got  her  sun-bonnet,  and  they  strolled  "down 
the  border,"  where  some  daffodils  and  wonderful  hya- 
cinths, the  only  ones  in  town,  and  sent  to  Lyddy  from 
Boston,  were  just  then  the  horticultural  wonder  of  the 
neighborhood. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Lyddy,  gradually  recovering  her 
composure,  "have  you  seen  Jerushy  Willitts  since  dona- 
tion?" 

"No,  I  hain't,"  said  Captain  Tart;  "but  I  see  Adonijah 
Brewer  this  mornin',  an'  he  said  Loisy  Pettingill  was 
a-goin'  to  hev  a  quiltin'  next  Wednesday,  and  o'  course 
you'll  be  a-goin'.  I  come  to  see  ef  you'd  ride  home  on 
my  pillion,  come  night." 

Lyddy  hesitated.  Captain  Tart  had  never  made  so 
bold  an  advance  as  this,  and  Lyddy  thought  of  her 
mother. 

"Jotham  Hunter  hain't  asked  you,  has  he,  Lyddy?" 
said  Captain  Tart,  his  forehead  gathering  in  a  scowl. 

"No,  no,"  said  Lyddy,  hastily.  "I  hain't  had  no  invite 
myself  yet,  you  know;  but,  law!"  recklessly  deciding  to 
follow  her  own  wishes  in  spite  of  her  mother,  "o'  course 
I  shall  have,  an'  I  might  as  well  come  home  with  you  as 
anybody,  I  s'pose.  Here's  the  flowers." 


270  White   Butterflies. 

"Purty,  ain't  they?"  said  Captain  Tart,  brightening  up. 

"Mebbe  you'd  like  one  for  your  button-hole,"  said 
Lyddy,  the  something  within  her  which  had  been  roused 
by  her  mother's  words  getting  the  better  of  her  prudence. 
"Here's  a  pretty  one";  and  she  broke  off  a  little  stalk 
which  bore  two  twinkling  blue  stars,  and  twisting  them 
with  a  sprig  of  southernwood  which  grew  beside  it,  began 
to  pin  the  posy  on  the  lapel  of  Captain  Tart's  homespun 
coat.  That  ended  the  whole  matter  for  the  young  man. 
Her  bright  hair  was  close  to  his  shoulder,  her  pink  face 
almost  against  his  breast.  His  breath  floated  down  in  her 
face  and  her  bosom  heaved  faster,  as  she  made  two 
or  three  efforts  to  fasten  the  refractory  flowers,  and  the 
young  man's  eye  glistened  with  a  new  tenderness.  His 
heart  was  all  aflame.  He  thought  of  the  "quiltin',"  and 
the  ride  home  afterward,  and  could  scarcely  wait  as  he 
thought.  He  decided  that  he  must  ask  her  then  the  final 
question,  and  with  her  flowers  breathing  up  perfume  into 
his  face,  and  the  remembrance  of  her  tell-tale  blushes  in 
his  mind,  he  felt  that  her  answer  could  not  be  "No." 
Then,  after  lingering  a  moment  at  the  door,  he  walked 
away,  his  heart  full  of  love,  Lyddy,  and  anticipation. 

Wednesday  came,  and  as  the  "invite"  had  decorously 
preceded  it,  Lyddy  Washburn,  with  a  party  of  merry 
girls,  walked,  as  was  the  custom,  the  two  miles  to  Loisy 
Pettingill's,  to  the  quilting,  arriving  there  at  two  in  the 
afternoon,  and  setting  bravely  to  work  at  once  upon  the 
gorgeous  quilt,  which  was  to  be  the  chief  adornment  of 
Loisy's  "outfittin'  "  at  her  approaching  nuptials. 

The  great  "quiltin'  bars"  folded  together  fast,  as  skill- 
ful fingers  deftly  sewed  along  the  lines  of  the  intricate  pat- 
tern, and  by  five  o'clock,  when  supper  was  announced, 
the  quilt  was  reduced  to  so  small  a  compass  that  "Miss 


Lyddy  Washburn's  Courtship.    271 

Pettingill"  insisted  that  everything  should  be  put  away 
before  the  young  men  came.  "Loisy  and  the  rest  can 
finish  it  in  no  time  to-morrow,"  said  the  hospitable  lady, 
"and  I'm  afraid  that  ef  you  go  ahead  as  you've  been 
a-goin',  you  won't  have  no  appetite  for  them  sugar 
doughnuts  I've  been  a-makin'." 

"Law!"  the  girls  all  broke  in,  in  courteous  deprecation, 
"we  hain't  got  along  none;  oughter  'a'  had  it  off  the 
frames  an  hour  ago." 

"You  go  'long!"  said  Loisy.  "That  quilt's  an  awful 
big  one,  and  amazin'  hard  to  quilt;  but  I  was  bound  I'd 
have  one  jest  like  Lony  Travers's,  and  I  did." 

"Yes,"  said  Lyddy,  thoughtlessly,  "and  I  mean  to  have 
one  like  it  too." 

"When  is  it  goin'  to  be?"  said  Loisy,  mischievously, 
while  the  curiosity  of  all  made  them  gather  more  closely 
around  Lyddy. 

"Law!"  said  Lyddy,  with  a  forced  laugh,  "I  s'pose  you 
didn't  know  that  Uncle  Dari  Mailers  and  I  was  a-goin'  to 
make  a  match." 

"Uncle  Dari  Mailers"  was  the  good-natured  old  hat- 
maker  of  the  village,  who  had  lived  single  all  his  life, 
because,  rumor  said,  he  had  been  jilted  in  his  youth.  He 
was  a  queer  but  popular  old  fellow,  and  Lyddy's  joke, 
received  with  great  laughter,  diverted  further  attention 
from  her  matrimonial  prospects,  and  they  went  out  into 
the  big  kitchen  to  supper. 

Such  a  supper!  The  "sugar  doughnuts"  adorned  each 
end  of  the  table,  while  a  great  "  'lection  cake"  stuffed 
with  plums  was  the  center-piece.  Generous  pitchers  of 
foaming  cider  were  scattered  here  and  there,  while  cold 
pork-and-beans,  flanked  by  "rye  an'  injun"  bread,  formed 
a  prominent  feature  of  the  entertainment.  Great  light 


272  White   Butterflies. 

biscuit,  clear  maple  syrup,  rich  preserves  of  citron,  cook- 
ies full  of  caraway,  fennel,  and  anise  seeds,  ginger  bread, 
mince  pies,  apple  pies,  and  squash  pies — such  was  the 
feast  which  the  delicate  damsels  who  had  officiated  at  the 
"quiltin'  "  were  to  taste  before  engaging  in  the  revelry 
of  the  evening;  and  such  was  the  digestion  of  the  sex  in 
the  "good  old  times,"  that  a  doctor's  bill,  or  even  a 
nightmare,  seldom  followed  the  free  enjoyment  of  these 
substantial  dainties. 

The  evening  came.  The  girls  had  previously  gone 
up  into  the  big  front  chamber,  with  its  lofty,  puffy  bed 
and  high,  stiff  bureau,  to  don  such  extra  ribbons  and 
trinkets  as  they  had  reserved  for  the  edification  of  the 
young  men  who  were  expected  shortly.  Of  course,  they 
all  had  gold  beads,  and  most  of  them  big  brooches  con- 
taining a  small  painted  likeness  of  some  ancestor. 
There  were  several  pairs  of  gold  earrings ;  and  the  combs 
— the  shell  combs  that  towered  half  a  foot  above  the 
smooth  luxuriance  of  our  grandmothers'  coiffures — who 
can  describe  them? 

One  by  one  the  young  men  were  admitted  at  the  clang 
of  the  great  brass  knocker — Jotham  Hunter  and  Adoni- 
jah  Brewer  and  Timothy  Bassett  and  a  dozen  other 
brown-faced,  square-shouldered  young  fellows  who  had 
never  had  a  day's  illness  in  their  lives,  and  who.  though 
they  knew  little  Greek,  were  well  versed  in  such  branches 
as  were  taught  in  the  district  schools  of  their  section,  and, 
better  than  that,  had  the  industrious  habits  and  the  un- 
bending integrity  which  have  made  our  country  what 
it  is. 

Among  the  rest  came  Captain  Tart,  and  more  than  one 
knowing  glance  passed  around  as  it  was  seen  that  in 
his  button-hole  he  wore,  in  observance  of  the  May-time, 


Lyddy  Washburn's  Courtship.    273 

and  in  proud  display  of  the  favor  of  the  most  courted 
girl  in  town,  the  hyacinths  and  southernwood  which 
everybody  knew  were  given  him  by  Lyddy  Washburn. 
He  had  preserved  them  carefully  in  water,  and  his  love 
had  grown  with  every  whiff  which  he  had  drunk  in  of 
their  intoxicating  perfume. 

Lyddy's  heart  beat  faster  with  mingled  pleasure  and 
indignation  as  she  saw  her  gift  thus  openly  flaunted  be- 
fore them  all,  and  she  instinctively  talked  faster  to  Adoni- 
jah  Brewer,  the  prospective  bridegroom;  but  she  could 
not  long  be  angry,  so  utterly  was  her  heart  subdued  by  the 
tenderness  she  felt  for  Captain  Tart,  and  the  manly  beauty 
of  his  face,  which  had  won  him  the  secret  admiration  of 
every  girl  in  Clearpond;  and  when  he  came  up  a  few 
moments  later  to  beg  her  hand  for  a  reel  which  was  to 
be  danced  in  the  great  kitchen,  she  went  tamely  enough. 
After  the  reel  they  "twirled  the  platter,"  and  then  the 
apples  were  brought  out,  and  Farmer  Pettingill  mixed  a 
bowl  of  his  famous  toddy,  which  he  could  make  as  no 
one  in  all  the  country  round.  The  glasses  were  filled  and 
refilled  till  the  hilarity  waxed  rather  noisy.  Captain  Tart 
had  drunk  his  glass  at  a  draught.  Then  he  looked  up  and 
caught  Lyddy's  eye,  in  which  there  was  a  look  that 
stopped  him  as  he  was  about  to  take  more.  She  was  very 
pale,  and  hastily  seeking  her  side,  he  said,  tenderly,  "Be 
you  sick,  Lyddy?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Lyddy,  her  color  coming  back  in  great 
waves  over  her  face.  "The  toddy's  kinder  strong;  I 
can't  drink  mine.  You  ain't  goin'  to  drink  no  more, 
Tart?"  with  a  beseeching  tone  in  her  gentle  voice  which 
went  to  the  young  man's  heart. 

"Not  if  you  don't  want  me  to,  Lyddy,"  he  said. 


274  White   Butterflies. 

"Well,  please,"  and  she  turned  away.  There  were  too 
many  looking  at  them  to  talk  any  longer. 

Jotham  Hunter  saw  it  all,  and  his  jealous  heart  sank 
within  him. 

"Tart  ain't  a-drinkin'  so  much  as  common  to-night," 
he  remarked  with  affected  carelessness  to  his  neighbor, 
but  loud  enough  to  be  heard  all  about  him. 

"No,"  said  the  other,  a  coarser-grained  fellow  than  the 
rest,  with  a  loud  laugh,  "but  he'll  be  makin'  up  for  it 
after  he  gits  out  o'  Lyddy  Washburn's  sight." 

"That's  so,"  said  Jotham  Hunter,  with  angry  emphasis, 
and  with  his  face  set  toward  Lyddy,  who  had  heard  every 
word,  till  her  slim  figure  dilated  and  her  eyes  blazed  at 
the  young  men  in  such  a  way  that  they  were  glad  to 
drop  the  conversation  at  once. 

After  the  toddy  there  was  an  uproarious  game  of 
"round  the  chimney,"  and  though  proud  Lyddy  Wash- 
burn  did  not  always  condescend  to  participate  in  the 
romping  sport,  she  ran  to-night,  and  received  a  kiss  from 
Captain  Tart,  the  memory  of  which  thrilled  her  to  her 
dying  day;  and  then  she  set  all  tongues  wagging  by  stub- 
bornly refusing  to  catch  Jotham  Hunter — whose  melan- 
choly not  even  the  toddy,  nor  the  smiles  of  Jerusha  Wil- 
litts,  a  young  woman  who  affected  him,  could  mitigate 
in  the  least. 

Then  it  was  nearing  midnight,  and  the  "quiltin'  party" 
broke  up,  each  young  man  taking  his  chosen  "girl"  to  her 
home  on  horseback  on  a  pillion  behind  him,  and  those 
unprovided  for  going  in  Farmer  Pettingill's  big  hay 
wagon. 

The  stars  were  bright  and  the  air  cool  and  bracing, 
and  the  smell  of  the  green  earth  and  the  apple-blossoms 
set  young  blood  astir.  Lyddy  sat  firmly  on  her  seat,  per- 


Lyddy  Washburn's  Courtship.    275 

haps  clinging  a  little  closer  to  Captain  Tart  than  necessity 
demanded,  and  they  jogged  slowly  along  till  the  merry 
voices  of  the  rest  were  lost  in  the  distance.  Then  the 
young  man  turned  his  horse  into  a  lonely  wood  road 
which  led  home  by  a  roundabout  way,  where  they  could 
talk  without  interruption. 

"Oh,  Tart!"  said  Lyddy,  nervously,  as  she  felt  him  give 
spurs  to  the  horse  when  they  neared  the  turning.  "Be 
you  goin'  by  the  'Lish  Woodard  farm?  It's  further." 

"Why  not?"  said  Captain  Tart,  as  though  that  were  the 
only  thing  to  do.  "  'Tain't  muddy.  I  drove  my  cattle 
through  there  to-day,  an',  Lyddy,"  his  voice  growing 
deeper — "Lyddy,  I've  got  suthin'  to  say  to  you." 

She  could  not  speak,  for  something  seemed  to  suffocate 
her,  and  they  rode  on  in  an  electric  silence  through  the 
deep  shadows  of  fragrant  pines  and  hemlocks  till  they 
came  to  a  secluded  spot,  when  Captain  Tart  vaulted  in  his 
saddle  and  faced  her,  folding  her  in  his  arms  as  he  did  so. 
Lyddy  was  frightened.  It  was  well  understood  in  the  vil- 
lage that  Lyddy  Washburn  allowed  none  of  the  liberties 
which  were  not  strictly  considered  improprieties  among 
the  young  folks  of  the  place,  and  no  young  man  could 
boast  that  she  had  ever  given  him  a  good-night  kiss,  or 
allowed  him  to  put  his  arm  about  her  when  going  home 
from  any  of  the  parties  which  abounded  during  the  gay 
country  winters;  and  here,  at  twenty-two,  she  sat  on  Tart 
Taylor's  pillion,  pressed  close  against  his  breast,  his 
handsome  face  caressing  hers — and  without  a  protest! 

"Oh,  Lyddy!"  said  Captain  Tart,  almost  choking  with 
the  passion  which  overpowered  him,  "I  can't  wait  another 
minute  till  you  tell  me  you'll  marry  me.  Oh,  Lyddy,  you 
will,  won't  you?" 

Lyddy  lifted  her  beautiful  face  to  his  and  gave  him  a 


276  White   Butterflies. 

kiss,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  his.  Then  they  said  noth- 
ing for  a  long  time,  till  they  noticed  suddenly  that  the 
horse  had  stopped,  and  was  leisurely  chewing  on  an  old 
lilac  bush  which  marked  the  spot  where  the  "  'Lish 
Woodard"  homestead  had  once  stood. 

But  they  did  not  care.  The  stars,  the  night  wind,  laden 
with  the  May  sweetness — it  was  heaven  itself  that  they 
were  riding  through,  completed  by  the  kisses  and  ca- 
resses of  an  honest  love.  Captain  Tart  started  up  the 
shrewd  horse,  which  fell  into  an  easy  canter.  Then  he 
said,  anxiously,  "Now,  Lyddy,  you'll  ride  on  the  pillion 
behind  me,  come  trainin',  won't  you?" 

On  the  pillion  behind  Tart  Taylor!  On  training-day! 
Before  everybody!  Yes,  she  would  do  anything  for  him. 
If  he  wished  their  engagement  thus  publicly  proclaimed, 
she  was  willing.  So  she  told  him  "Yes,"  and  her  mind 
went  back  to  the  training  on  the  last  Fourth  of  July, 
when  he  rode  at  the  head  of  the  "milishy,"  so  straight  and 
handsome  that  her  heart  fluttered  at  the  thought  that  he 
was  now  her  lover. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  low  noise,  which  made  the  horse 
start,  and  Captain  Tart  turn  uneasily  in  his  saddle.  A 
low,  fiendish  laugh,  and  a  muttered  "The  devil!"  were  all 
they  heard  afterward.  Then  there  was  a  rustle  in  the 
bushes,  and  Captain  Tart  put  spurs  to  his  horse.  The 
fleet  creature  darted  on  to  the  turning,  when  they  rode 
down  the  turnpike  like  the  wind,  till  they  reached  Farmer 
Washburn's  great  red  house,  where  a  light  was  burning 
in  the  kitchen  for  Lyddy.  She  was  all  a-tremble  when 
her  lover  lifted  her  from  the  horse;  but  she  saw  no  fear 
nor  tremor  in  his  eye  or  on  his  firm-set  lips. 

"Why,  Lyddy,  dear,"  he  said,  folding  her  tenderly  to 
him,  and  soothing  her  with  his  great,  rough  hand,  "didn't 


Lyddy  Washburn's  Courtship.    277 

you  know  who  that  was  in  the  thicket?  Why,  Lyddy" 
— he  paused  and  choked  a  little — "that  was — that  was" — 
she  looked  up  at  him  in  terror — "that  was — my  mother." 

Then,  before  she  could  fairly  enter  the  hospitable  door, 
he  had  leaped  to  his  saddle,  and  was  gone.  The  horrid 
fright  had  shattered  their  love  dream,  and  spoiled  the 
beautiful  evening  which  should  have  been  the  sweetest 
of  their  lives.  Alas !  it  had  done  much  more,  but  they  aid 
not  know  it  then. 

The  next  morning,  before  Lyddy's  shaken  nerves  had 
half  recovered  their  tension,  her  mother  entered  her 
chamber  and  roused  her  from  the  uneasy  sleep  into  which 
she  had  only  just  fallen.  Lucifer  matches  were  then  un- 
known, and  the  flint  and  matchlock  were  the  only  sub- 
stitute. If  these  failed,  there  was  no  resource  but  to  ride, 
sometimes  for  miles,  to  the  nearest  house  and  beg  some 
fire.  Farmer  Washburn  was  too  rheumatic  this  morning 
to  ride,  and  the  hired  men,  and  the  two  of  Lyddy's  broth- 
ers who  were  still  unmarried  and  at  home,  had  eaten  a 
cold  breakfast  and  were  ploughing  the  "medder,"  and 
could  not  leave.  The  fire  was  out,  and  Lyddy  must  get 
up  and  ride  a  mile  and  a  half,  as  fast  as  she  could,  to  get 
some  coals. 

She  rose  mechanically,  and  was  dressed  and  on  her 
horse,  with  the  foot-stove  fastened  securely  beside  her, 
before  she  remembered  that  the  nearest  house,  her  brother 
"Si"  Washburn's,  was  to  be  reached  ten  minutes  sooner 
by  passing  over  a  section  of  the  "  'Lish  Woodard"  road 
than  by  the  main  highway.  At  the  turning  she  hesitated ; 
then,  ashamed  of  her  foolish  fears,  she  reined  her  horse 
resolutely  into  the  wood  road,  and  was  soon  near  the 
scene  of  the  dreadful  adventure  of  the  night  before.  She 
could  not  help  hurrying  a  little  as  she  approached  the 


278  White   Butterflies. 

spot;  but  the  bright  rays  of  the  six  o'clock  sun  streamed 
through  the  trees  and  showed  only  the  innocent  under- 
brush below;  so  she  rode  on  more  quietly.  Then  her 
thoughts  turned  to  her  lover,  and  the  caresses  he  had 
given  her.  It  all  seemed  to  her,  in  the  bright  morning, 
like  a  feverish  dream;  and  a  guilty  blush  suffused  her 
pure  face  as  she  thought  how  he  had  embraced  her,  and 
of  the  sweet  words  that  he  had  whispered  in  her  ear. 

Suddenly  a  shadow  fell  across  the  sunshine,  and  she 
was  rudely  roused  from  her  tender  reverie  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  woman  whose  demoniac  laugh  and  ejacula- 
tion had  chilled  her  blood  the  night  before.  She  was 
haggard  and  unkempt,  and  had  apparently  been  wander- 
ing all  the  night.  As  Lyddy  looked  at  her,  she  could  see 
that  "Aunt  Betty,"  from  some  cause  or  other,  was  almost, 
if  not  quite,  frenzied,  and  she  was  about  to  put  her  horse 
to  his  speed,  when  the  woman  checked  her  by  a  motion 
of  her  hand. 

"No,  Lyddy  Washburn,"  she  said,  in  a  harsh,  angry 
voice,  "you  needn't  run  away  from  Tart's  mother.  She'll 
do  ye  no  harm,  though  she  heard  all  the  billin'  and  cooin' 
last  night,  and  she  knows  ye've  stole  her  darlin'  away 
from  her — her  darlin'!  her  darlin'!"  and  she  wrung  her 
hands  wildly. 

"He's  all  I've  got,  and  little  ye  know,  ye  pink-faced 
girl,  how  I  love  him — the  straightest  and  handsomest 
man  in  all  these  parts.  But,  mark  ye,  Lyddy  Washburn" 
— and  her  voice  took  on  an  unearthly  depth  and  stern- 
ness, "them  red  cheeks  o'  yourn'll  be  white,  an'  that  shmy 
hair  thin  an'  gray,  before  ye'll  take  my  boy  away  from 
me.  I  feel  it — I  know  it!" 

"You  may  be  sure,"  said  Lyddy  Washburn,  her  horror 
showing  in  her  strained  and  excited  voice — "you  may  be 


Lyddy  Washburn's  Courtship.    279 

sure,  Betty  Taylor,  that  as  long  as  you  live,  I  shall  never 
marry  your  son." 

"Won't  ye? — won't  ye?"  said  Aunt  Betty,  in  a  kind 
of  devilish  glee.  "I'll  be  sixty  year  come  Michaelmas, 
but  the  Lord'll  give  me  strength  to  live  past  ye  both. 
Mark  my  words,  ye  proud  young  puppet!  Mark  me! 
mark  me!"  and  flinging  up  her  withered  hands,  she 
darted  up  the  hillside  with  a  savage  cry,  climbing  the 
steep  like  a  spider,  until  she  was  out  of  sight. 

Lyddy  Washburn  rode  on  mechanically,  got  her  fire, 
and  was  soon  home  again,  but  she  could  not  have  told 
a  word  that  was  said  at  her  brother's  house,  nor  any- 
thing of  the  people  whom  she  saw  after  Aunt  Betty  left 
her.  A  dull  loathing  and  horror  possessed  her,  and  her 
mother,  noticing  her  pallid  face  and  subdued  manner, 
sent  her — unheard-of  proceeding! — peremptorily  to  bed 
right  after  dinner.  Then  Lyddy  fell  into  a  long,  dream- 
less sleep,  and  though  the  night  that  followed  was  wake- 
ful and  uncanny,  her  fresh  young  nature  soon  rallied,  and 
in  a  few  days  she  had  regained,  to  all  appearance,  her 
sprightliness  and  her  beauty.  But  Lyddy  Washburn  was 
not  the  same.  She  had  passed  through  a  deep  and  a  ter- 
rible experience,  and  it  had  left  its  mark  upon  her  soul. 

Captain  Tart  had  come  the  next  Sunday  night  to  make 
his  first  regular  "courtin'."  Mrs.  Washburn  and  good 
Farmer  'Liakim  had  been  duly  informed  of  the  state  of 
affairs,  and  had  finally  given  a  reluctant  consent  to  the 
match,  though  Mrs.  Washburn  had  wept  many  tears  in 
private,  in  spite  of  her  daughter's  assurances  that  Captain 
Tart  would  "steady  down"  now,  and  that  she  would 
never,  never  marry  him  while  his  mother  was  living.  She 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  this  more  than  even  her 
mother,  who  had  only  seen  Aunt  Betty  "dressed  and  in 


280  White   Butterflies. 

her  right  mind,"  though  she  had  heard  frightful  stories 
of  her  ungovernable  temper  and  her  disgusting  profanity. 
These,  strange  to  say,  had  seemed  to  be  a  product  of  her 
age,  though  she  had  always  been  a  termagant.  Her  chil- 
dren were  temperate  and  intelligent  men  and  women, 
though  only  Tertius  was  left  now  to  care  for  her,  the 
others  having  either  died  or  removed  to  distant  places. 
He  seemed  to  be  enough,  however,  for  she  was  utterly 
bound  up  in  him.  The  idea  of  his  marriage  had  long 
tormented  her.  As  time  went  on,  she  had  come  to  hope 
that,  like  many  of  his  race,  he  would  never  marry.  But 
she  began  to  notice  his  preference  for  Lyddy  Washburn. 
She  saw  him  cherishing  her  flowers.  She  knew  he  was 
to  escort  her  from  the  quilting,  and  she  felt  instinctively 
that  he  would  take  her  home  by  the  secluded  wood  road. 
There  she  had  stealthily  waited  for  them  to  come,  had 
seen  her  son's  caresses,  had  heard  the  words  which  she 
fancied  were  to  part  him  from  her  forever,  had  listened 
till,  wrought  almost  to  madness,  she  had  uttered  the  cry 
which  had  so  startled  them.  Then  she  had  wandered,  in 
a  sort  of  stupid  craze,  till  morning  around  the  spot  where 
the  fatal  words  had  been  spoken.  There  she  had  been 
met  by  Lyddy  on  her  morning  ride;  but  the  solemn  de- 
termination that  the  girl  had  evinced  in  making  her  vow 
had  filled  the  agonized  mother's  heart  with  a  fiendish 
delight. 

"I  will  not  die! — I  will  not  die!"  she  chuckled  to  her- 
self as  she  climbed  the  hillside;  and  a  superhuman 
strength  seemed  to  descend  upon  her  with  the  oath  she 
took. 

The  Fourth  of  July  came — a  glorious,  cloudless  day. 
The  fife  and  drum  ushered  in  the  morning,  and  they 
were  accompanied  by  the  peal  of  bells  and  roar  of  can- 


Lyddy  Washburn's  Courtship.    281 

non.  The  mustering  ground  was  early  crowded  with  the 
yeomanry  of  the  county  and  their  wives  and  daughters, 
while  blue  coats  and  brass  buttons  blossomed  thickly  in 
all  directions.  Before  long  the  music  started  up  anew,  and 
the  procession  began  to  form,  in  which  the  militia  were  to 
march  from  the  church  green  to  the  parade  ground.  It 
was  growing  late,  but  the  captain  had  not  come.  All  necks 
were  craned  to  watch  for  him,  when,  lo!  riding  down  the 
road  came  Captain  Tart,  his  bright  uniform  becoming 
well  his  manly  figure,  while  on  the  pillion  behind  him,  in 
a  dress  of  delicate  green,  with  a  silver  feather — an  heir- 
loom in  her  family — drooping  above  her  lovely  face,  rode 
Lyddy  Washburn.  She  sat  straight  and  stately  in  her 
seat,  and  a  murmur  of  admiration  ran  through  the  wait- 
ing crowd. 

The  drum  beat,  and  the  men  formed  in  line,  but  just 
as  they  were  about  to  march,  someone  passed  a  word 
along,  and  with  lifted  caps  they  sent  up  three  tremen- 
dous cheers  for  the  captain  and  his  fair  sweetheart.  He 
had,  indeed,  restrained  his  appetite  for  liquor  of  late,  and 
the  match  had  come  to  be  quite  generally  approved 
among  the  towns-people.  The  appearance  of  the  young 
couple  in  such  dashing  and  picturesque  style  at  the 
"trainin5,"  completed  the  favorable  impression,  and  even 
Jotham  Hunter  and  a  score  of  other  disappointed  youths 
were  forced  to  admit  that  the  Lord  had  evidently  made 
Captain  Tart  and  Lyddy  Washburn  for  each  other.  The 
excitement  caused  by  the  advent  of  the  handsome  young 
pair  was  easily  kept  up  throughout  the  day,  and  that 
"trainin' "  was  famous  in  the  annals  of  the  town  as  the 
most  successful  that  had  ever  been  known  there. 

Every  Sunday  night  thereafter  Captain  Tart — steady 
now,  and  becoming  a  most  successful  farmer — came  to 


282  White   Butterflies. 

see  Lyddy  Washburn,  and  they  settled  down  into  the 
ordinary  ways  of  "courtin'";  and  when  the  Fourth  of 
July  came  around  again,  Lyddy  rode  again  on  the  pillion 
behind  her  lover,  and  again  the  enthusiasm  at  their 
appearance  was  unbounded. 

But  still  Lyddy  would  not  marry  him.  Another  year 
went  round,  and  still  she  refused.  He  pressed  her  for 
her  reason. 

"We've  been  courtin'  long  enough,  Lyddy,  dear,"  said 
the  honest  fellow,  pleadingly.  "I've  got  a  good  farm,  and 
can  take  care  of  you.  Let's  be  cried  right  off,  Lyddy." 

But  Lyddy  was  determined,  and  by-and-by  she  told 
him  her  reason.  Then  he  urged  her  no  more,  while  the 
hateful  old  woman  on  the  hillside  chuckled  to  herself, 
and  nursed  herself  more  carefully. 

Every  Fourth  of  July  for  five  years  Lyddy  rode  with 
Captain  Tart  at  the  mustering.  Then  she  grew  ashamed, 
and  would  go  no  more,  and  Captain  Tart  himself,  a  few 
years  later,  resigned  his  sword  and  his  cocked  hat  to 
another. 

The  village  folk  talked  and  talked  for  a  while  over 
the  "long  courtin'  Tart  Taylor  was  a-makin'  of  Lyddy 
Washburn."  Then  it  began  to  be  accepted  as  a  settled 
fact,  and  ceased  to  excite  remark. 

Mrs.  Washburn  scolded  and  wept  as  Lyddy  went  on  in 
her  thirties,  and  a  little  gray  began  to  creep  into  her  hair, 
and  her  complexion  lost  its  bloom;  but  though  one  or 
two  farmers  boldly  came  to  try  their  luck  at  wooing  away 
from  Captain  Tart  the  still  beautiful  woman,  she  was 
pathetically  true  to  her  only  love,  who  was  equally  stead- 
fast in  his  devotion  to  her. 

As  time  crept  on,  her  father  and  mother  passed  away, 
and  she  went  to  live  with  a  brother,  whose  motherless 


Lyddy  Washburn's  Courtship.    283 

children  she  grew  to  love  as  her  own;  but  still  Aunt  Betty 
lived  on,  growing  tougher  and  heartier  apparently  with 
each  successive  year.  There  was  something  ghastly  in 
the  thought  that  they  were  waiting  for  her  to  die. 

Then  Lyddy  Washburn  began  'to  grow  old  and 
wrinkled.  She  was  over  fifty,  and  her  lover's  rugged  face, 
with  its  look  of  pathetic  patience  and  unfaltering  resolu- 
tion, lost  its  handsome  contour,  and  his  hale  figure  be- 
gan to  bow  with  time  and  hard  work. 

But  still  the  old  woman  lived  on,  with  a  defiant  per- 
sistence which  deepened  Lyddy  Washburn's  secret  con- 
viction that  she  was  a  witch. 

It  was  one  lovely  spring  day,  forty  years  from  the  time 
when  Lyddy  Washburn  had  pledged  her  word  to  Captain 
Tart  to  marry  him,  that  the  news  was  borne  to  the  village 
from  the  hill  farm  that  Aunt  Betty,  at  the  age  of  one  hun- 
dred years,  was  dead  at  last.  She  had  failed  to  outlive 
them,  after  all.  For  several  days  before  her  death  she 
had  been  ailing,  but  no  one  had  anticipated  the  end  so 
soon,  and  she  had  dropped  away  suddenly  at  the  last,  as 
though  the  force  of  gravitation  had  at  just  that  moment 
grown  too  strong  for  her  hold  upon  the  tree  of  life. 

It  was  forty  years  from  the  Fourth  of  July  when  Lyddy 
Washburn,  in  her  green  habit  and  silver  feather,  had 
first  graced  the  pillion  behind  her  lover  at  the  training, 
that  she  stood  up  in  the  church  beside  him,  an  old  and 
wrinkled  woman,  and  became  his  bride.  The  fire  and 
passion  of  their  early  courtship  had  died  away,  but  a  holy 
affection  had  taken  its  place,  which  brought,  at  the  last, 
genuine  happiness  to  their  blighted  lives — blighted  by  the 
curse  of  a  selfish  and  vindictive  woman. 


LORDS  FHE  'BELLS 

BAKK 


By  A.  c. 

A  STRONG 


L 


v    -written    by 

ORDS  OF  THE  NORTH   is   a   t 

dealing  with  the  rivalries  and  intrigue^    MOCRAT- 

and  Honorable  Hudson*  's  Bay  and 
Companies    for    the    supremacy  of    the    fiwhich  has  appeared 
Great     North.        It  is   a   story  of  life  iid  value,  as  it  is  good 
pioneers    and    trappers.       The    life    of  t  Mr».  Ban-  is  at  her 
Canada  is  graphically  depicted.     The  strugpoon  have  a  copy  on 
settlers  and  the  intrigues  which  made  the  lii 
fur  trading  companies  so  full  of  romantic 
laid    bare.        Francis    Parkman   and    othe 
written  of  the  discovery  and  colonization  olr  *         vor  *' 
great  North  American  continent,  but  no  nov 
so  full  of  life  and   vivid  interest   as    Lords 
Much  valuable  information  has  been  obtained^  Of  iifejn  jjew 
ments  and  the  records  of  the  rival  companies  ^rane-m  00^^ 
unlimited  power  over  a  vast  extent  of  our  yje  dinging  for_ 
style  is  admirable,  and  the  descriptions  of  an  \  ;n  Mra   Barr>, 
nent,  of  vast  forest  wastes,  rivers,   lakes  and'  jn  ^  deiinea, 
place  this  book  among  the  foremost  historical      Trinity  Bells 
present  day.      The  struggles  of  the  English  fo^cnt  piace  ;n  a 
the  capturing  of  frontier  posts  and  forts,  and  the 
and  trapper  are   pictured   with  a  master's  han 
being  vastly  interesting,  Lords  of  the  North  is  a  I 

torical  value.  '""toy  hat 

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JS  TIMES 

'WIGHT  WELLS 

Modern      Diplomacy 

Y   THE   AUTHOR   OF 

Ladyship's  Elephant," 
>  * 

mes  is  a  society  novel  of  to-day. 

laid    in    London  in  diplomatic 

romance  was  suggested  by  experi- 

vuthor  while  Second  Secretary  of 

:ates  Embassy  at  the  Court  of  St. 

a  charming  love  story,  with  a 

:esh  and  attractive.     The  plot  is 

le  action  of  the  book  goes  with  a 

cal  conspiracy  and  the  secrets  of 

•  of  a  castle  in  Sussex  play  an  im- 

t    in    the    novel.     The  story  is  a 

.dy,  full  of  humor,  flashes  of  keen 

lever   epigram.     It   will    hold    the 

,ttention    from    beginning    to    end. 

-  it  is  a  good  story  exceedingly  well 

promises  to  be  Mr.  Wells'  most  suc- 

lovel. 

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"One     of     tHe     best     stories     ever    -written     by 
Amelia  E.  Barr." 

ST.    LOUIS    GLOBE   DEMOCRAT. 

CHRISTIAN   NATION, 

"Without  question  the  best  book  for  young  girls  which  has  appeared 
for  years.  Besides  being  interesting  it  has  an  educational  value,  as  it  is  good 
supplementary  reading  to  a  school  course  in  history.  Mrs.  Barr  is  at  her 
best  in  Trinity  Belli.  We  trust  that  every  library  will  soon  have  a  copy  on 
its  shelves." 

LITERARY  WORLD.    Boston, 

"In  idea  and  execution  this  is  one  of  the  author's  best  works,  and 
well  worthy  of  its  superb  dress  of  silver  and  green." 

THE  BOOK-BUYER, 

"The  name  is  happily  chosen  for  this  romantic  story  of  life  in  New 
York  during  the  period  preceding  the  war  with  the  Mediterranean  corsairs, 
for  the  bells  of  Old  Trinity  ring  out  an  accompaniment  to  the  changing  for- 
tunes of  the  lovable  little  Dutch  heroine.  There  is  a  charm  in  Mrs.  Barr's 
work  that  goes  directly  to  the  reader's  heart,  while  her  skill  in  the  delinea- 
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young  girl's  library." 

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ever  been  written.  Trinity  Bells  shows  Mrs.  Barr's  charm  and  power  in 
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NOVELS.    POEMS    AND    LIFE 

* 
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"A  steel-bright  romance  of  the  middle  ages  —  flashing  blades,  passages 
of  love  and  adventure,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  romance  marshaled  by  a 
ikilfulhand." 

A  Hand-Booh  of  Wrestling' 

By  HUGH  F.  LEONARD 

Instructor  in  Wrestling  at  the  New  York  Athletic  Club. 
Crown  &vo.,  ClotH,  220  illustrations,  5>2»   Edition  de  Luxe,  $5 
"I  wish  the  work  the  success  which  it  merits." 

—  D.  A.  SARGINT,  Medical  Director,  Harvard  University. 

J.     F.     TAYLOR     CO.     COMPANY 
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WHITE     BUTTERFLIES 

By    RATE    UPSON    CLARR 

ClotH,  ftvo.  $1.25 

MARY  E.  WILHLINS 

"The  stones  are  marvellous.  If  "I  at  though  1  ivere  conitantly  find- 
ing another  vein  of  gold.  The  dramatic  power  in  some  of  them  has  never 
been  excelled  in  any  American  short  stories.  'Solly'  it  a  masterpiece." 

ANSON    JUDD     XJPSON.     D.D.,     L.L.D.. 

Chancellor  of  The    Univ.    of  Now   YorK 

"Your  stories  are  just  what  I  like.  Your  characters  are  exceedingly 
vivid.  I  cannot  too  warmly  commend  the  simplicity  and  purity  of  your 
style,  the  vividness  of  your  characters  and  the  general  construction  of  the 
jtories." 

MARGARET  E.  SANOSTER 

"It  seems  to  me  that  no  stories,  long  or  short,  have  appeared,  which 
illustrate  more  perfectly  than  these  what  we  have  in  mind  when  we  use,  in 
a  literary  sense,  the  term  'Americanism.'  The  atmosphere  of  these  beau- 
tiful tales  is  truthfully  varied  to  suit  every  locality  described,  but  everywhere 
the  standards  and  ideals  are  set  alike.  A  sound,  healthful  Americanism, 
just  what  we  wish  the  word  to  mean,  pervades  them  all." 

St.   Loxiia  Globe-Democrat 

"It  is  not  art ;  it  is  genius." 

THe    Nation 

"It  is  unusual  to  find  so  wide  a  range  of  scene  and  person  in  one  col- 
lection of  short  stories.  In  each  of  these  a  strongly  dramatic  incident  is  in- 
troduced, ringing  both  true  and  real." 

Mail  and  Express 

"Many  a  nugget  of  wisdom,  many  a  bit  of  homely  philosophy,  and 
enough  humor  to  leaven  the  whole." 

"Western   Club  "Woman. 

"Full  of  exquisite  pathos,  a  tenderness,  a  delicacy  of  touch  not  often 
equalled.  The  art  is  perfect." 

Chicago  Evening  Post 

"Mrs.  Clark  is  entitled  to  the  thanks  of  a  reading  public." 


J.*   F.     TAYLOR     (BL     COMPANY 

s  *  7  EAST:  SIXTEENTH  ST..  NEW  YORK 


LITTLE  LEATHER 
BREECHES 


OTHER  SOUTHED?  RHYMES 

COLLECTED    AND    ARRANGED    BY 

FRANCIS  P.  WIGHTMAN 

Forty-eight  full-page  colored  illustrations   and  cover 

by  the  author 
Quarto,   $1.5O 

*  * 

PETER  NEWELL 

"Little  Leather  Breeches  is  a  permanent  contribution  to 
the  literature  of  the  day.  Not  only  is  it  highly  amusing, 
but  also  of  genuine  value  as  a  collection  and  presentation  of 
folk-lore  of  a  peculiar  and  interesting  people.  /  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  set  the  stamp  of  approval  on  your  book." 

J*.  B.  FROST 

"The  book  is  very  well  done,  very  bright  and  clever  in 
its  treatment  of  the  subject.  The  material  you  have  gathered 
together  is  excellent,  very  interesting,  and  should  be 
preserved.  '  ' 

"The  most  unique  gift-book  of  the  season." 

—  St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 

"A  bit  of  rollicking  fun."  —  The  Book-Buyer. 

"Refreshingly  original.      Lavishly  illustrated." 

Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

"Since  the  days  of  Lear's  Nonsense  Book  nothing  has 
appeared  so  full  of  genuine  humor."  —  Savannah  Press. 

J.   F.   TAYLOR    CEL    COMPANY 

5*7  EAST.    SIXTEENTH  ST.,    NEW  YORft 


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•  t   Vl7- 


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:  RECL 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILI" 


A     000029465     2 


